The year was 1960. The world had yet to hear of the Beatles.

John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Stuart Sutcliffe sat around a cheap laminated table in the Seaman’s Mission, wolfing down heaping bowls of corn flakes. It was early in the afternoon on an uncharacteristically warm day in Hamburg, Germany. The lads had just rolled out of bed a short time earlier after playing nearly the entire previous night in the seedy club where they were employed. Little conversation interrupted their meal, famished as they were. Their appearance was not impressive. Not one had bothered to run a comb through his hair, and a day’s growth of whiskers shadowed their gaunt features; some more than others, depending on age and maturity. Scruffy blue jeans and not quite white t-shirts completed the look.

Barely noticed, another young man similar in appearance entered the diner and made his way to the table. He pulled up a chair and plopped himself down on it backwards, so his arms rested on the back.

“Guess wha’ happ’ned to Derry’s drummer?” the normally reticent boy, Pete Best, asked.

“What?” Paul replied, disinterested.

“German teds beat the shite outta ‘im,” Pete said. “He’s in hospital.”

This bit of news got their attention. They all looked up from their bowls, the cereal momentarily forgotten.

“Where’d y’hear that?” John challenged.

“I jus’ ran into ol’ Derry ‘imself,” Pete said. “Said they ganged up on ‘im in an alley.”

Stu, looking nervous, asked, “Did they rob ‘im?”

“Dunno,” Pete said.

“How bad?” Stu again.

“They beat ‘im to a bloody pulp.”

“Why?” George, his brown eyes wide in his thin face, was afraid of the answer, as they all were.

“You know why,” John said, resuming his meal.

The boys all looked at John. In fact, they did know. And the thought terrified them. There had been rumblings in the St. Pauli district, the sleazy section of Hamburg they inhabited, that the arrival of English pop bands posed a threat to the tough German gang members who considered it their turf. Simply put, the musicians were fast becoming popular with the female population and the Germans were jealous of the attention they were getting. Veiled threats had reverberated through the distric,t but this was the first known instance of actual violence. It was not a good omen.

“We don’t really know that’s it,” Paul stated dismissively.

“We don’t know it isn’t,” Stu argued.

“He could’ve mouthed off at ‘em,” Paul said.

“Could’ve,” Pete said. “Or not.” The drummer rose to procure his own bowl of corn flakes.

Spoons clanked against bowls as the lads resumed eating, thoughtful of the recent turn of events. John, the erstwhile leader of the motley group, waited until Pete returned to speak again.

“Right, then,” he announced. “From now on, no one goes alone. ‘Specially at night. They won’t bother us if we stay in groups.”

“Come on, John,” Paul said with a smirk. “D’ye honestly think lit’l Stu here is gonna protect me – or anyone else – from the big bad Germans?” Paul was alluding to the fact that Stuart was the slightest member of the band and the least street wise.

Stu rolled his eyes impatiently. “That’s not what he’s sayin’ a’tall.”

“No, Paulie, I’m sayin’ you’re gonna protect him,” John said.

Stu, suddenly defensive, remarked, “I don’t need protectin’.”

“Sure,” Paul chuckled.

“He’s got his fraulein to keep him safe,” Pete chided with a sly grin.

“Lay off, Pete,” Stu retorted.

“Get stuffed, all of ye,” John ordered, giving them a warning glare. “Don’t go wandrin’ about by yerselves… that’s all.”

“John’s right,” George said. “They might be ooking’ for easy targets.”

“Like skinny 17 year old boys from Liverpool?” Paul taunted, laughing.

George blushed in spite of himself, ducking his face down in a transparent attempt to hide his embarrassment. No amount of teasing about his age ever thickened his skin enough to avoid the humiliation he always felt. Even though Paul was less than a year older, George was still the youngest, and – except for Stu – the slightest, and they never let him forget it. “I may be skinny but I’ll bloody you.”

“You’re daft,” Paul laughed. “I could shatter you in my sleep.”

“Knock it off, Macca,” John said, uncharacteristically serious.

“Me? He just threatened me!” Paul was indignant.

“You started it!” George retorted. “I was only—“

“Shurrup, both of ye,” John interrupted.

Paul snorted. “That’s it, I’m done,” he said in disgust, rising. He wasn’t about to sit around and get into a debate with John. He strode purposefully out of the mission into the bright sunlight outside.

“What’s got into him?” Pete asked.

“Maybe he struck out last night,” George speculated with a smirk.

“God help us if Macca didn’t get his nightly shag,” Stu said sarcastically.

“It’s not him you need to be worryin’ about!” John ranted. “Ain’t ye heard a word I said?” He too started to rise. He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and extracted one. “I meant what I said. Don’t forget it,” he told the three remaining band members, who only stared at him in surprise. Lennon stalked out of the mission.

“What the hell’s the matter with everyone?” Pete grumbled.

“John’s really worried,” George said quietly.

“And if John’s worried,” Stu said, “…then we should be, too.”

The three slowly got up and left.

***

“…some fun toni-hi-hight!” Paul screamed hoarsely into the microphone as the band played the final few notes and ended together on a decisive chord.

The moderate crowd dispersed from the dance floor amid the applause of only a handful of patrons. Paul looped his bass strap over his head and set the instrument down, simultaneously casing the crowd for a likely conquest. John, George and Stu followed suit as Pete climbed out from behind his kit. They were soaked in sweat as they stepped down to take a break. Astrid and Klaus sat waiting at a table by the wall.

The boys all lit up cigarettes as soon as they took their seats, adding to the smoky haze that already hung heavily in the air. Pete pulled out his last cigarette and frowned as he stuck it between his lips. A waitress appeared with a tray full of lagers and a small dish of blue pills. She set them down and the boys descended on the beverages hungrily. John delicately placed the small dish in the middle of the table. No words were said as Paul, George and Stu plucked a couple of pills each from it. They washed them down with gulps of beer.

Stu took a seat next to Astrid and she looped her arm in his, smiling contentedly. “You vere vonderful,” she said in his ear.

“Not me. Them,” he said back, close to her ear so only she could hear.

“I sink you vere,” she murmured back.

“Not as wonderful as you,” Stu whispered, nuzzling her ear.

“Hey, none of tha’ now,” John scolded good-naturedly.

“No fair havin’ cake in front of those who don’ have any,” George said, smiling crookedly.

“Oh my Georgie, you could have any – what you say, tart? – you want, Liebliches Kind,” Astrid cooed, stroking George’s jaw with her well manicured nails.

George smiled, embarrassed, but secretly delighted.

“Oh, George,” John mimicked in a high feminine voice. “Can I be your tart, please?” He batted his eyes flirtatiously.

“No, me!” Paul said, his voice even higher. “Pick me!” He pushed John aside and grabbed George’s arm. George promptly shrugged him off. The hard feelings from earlier had dissipated, as they always did.

George took a long swig of his beer to assuage his sudden discomfort at being the object of more teasing. This time it was worth it, though. Astrid had touched him.

“I hate to break up this orgy but I’m outta ciggies,” Pete said, standing. “I’ll be back.”

“See that you are, son,” John said. “We’re back on in 10.”

“Don’t worry,” Pete said.

“Hey!” George called.

“What?”

“You aren’t goin’ out thur alone?”

Pete shrugged.

John seemed to suddenly remember his own earlier admonition. “Bollocks. One o’ ye go with ‘im.” John’s command left no doubt that he would not be the one leaving his seat.

“Well I’m not goin’,” Paul said, having caught a glimpse of a lovely German lass who was throwing meaningful glances his way. With a jaunty smile, Paul stood and approached the girl.

Astrid clung to Stu a little tighter. Stu looked at George and raised his eyebrows pleadingly.

“I’ll go with ye,” George sighed, reluctant to give up his coveted seat next to Astrid in order to chaperone Pete back to the theater.

“Hurry up, then,” Pete urged.

George drained his beer and got up, following Pete out the back door of the club and into the alley.

***

Across the nightclub, four young German men had watched with interest as the beautiful blonde German woman snuggled closely to one of the musicians. Their malice grew as the musician nuzzled her ear. One of the men actually turned and spat on the floor.

“Betrachten sie das,” one alerted the others. Look at that.

They continued to watch with growing hatred. The English musicians were being treated like princes and it consumed them with jealousy. The blonde woman spoke lovingly to the boy on the other side of her, raising her hand to caress his jawline with affection.

One of them stood up to go somewhere. The Germans eyed one another knowingly. This might be their chance to catch one of them alone. Although, they had not witnessed this particular one doing anything egregious, he was still one of them. He’d do.

“Er ist das ein,” the apparent leader, a ruddy-faced man with reddish blond hair, said. He is the one.

They then saw the black-haired one rise and saunter over to a fair young woman whose body language left no doubt what she had in mind. This only fueled their resolve.

“Aussehen, er verlassen,” another one said excitedly. Look, he’s leaving.

The leader nodded and smiled. Yes, he was indeed leaving. But wait, he was being stopped. The musician with the pompadour stopped to chat for a moment. Perhaps he was not leaving after all. But a moment later, the slight, young-looking one rose and followed the first one towards the exit. He was leaving, after all, but he was not alone. It would not be as easy.

“Vielleicht sollen wir aufheben,” another of the minions suggested. Maybe we should abandon our plans this time.

“Lächerlich,” the leader laughed. “Es wird leicht sein. Der ist mager. Er wird keine Schwierigkeit sein.” Ridiculous. It will be easy. That one is puny. He will cause no trouble.

“Sie sind richtig,” the others agreed. You’re right. They quickly drained their pints and stood to action, fueled by alcohol, hormones and jealousy.

“Sie wissen was zu machen,” the blond boy told his troops. You know what to do.

Nodding and smiling, the boys postured, pounding their fists into their palms and jutting out their chests. Energized, they fled the club to await their quarry.

Pete and George entered the dank accommodations they called “the pit,” their home away from home while working in Hamburg. It was an old unused series of dressing rooms backstage in a dilapidated theater called the Bambi Kino.  The set up consisted of three rooms; a larger front room with a small window and overhead light, and two smaller rooms down the corridor that were perpetually dark, as they were not wired for lighting. John, George and Stu had quickly claimed the first room before Paul and Pete could get their dibs in. This left them with the two less desirable dark rooms down the hallway.

George lingered in the hallway, waiting for Pete to scrounge up a pack of smokes in the dark. “You’d better hurry,” he said laconically. “Bruno’ll be havin’ a fit if we’re not back on soon.”

“Bruno can get stuffed,” Pete replied.

George heard the sounds of rustling as Pete continued to search. He hoped Pete would find them soon, because he was craving a smoke himself. Plus, he did not want to incur the wrath of either Bruno or John if they were slow getting back.

“Found ‘em!” Pete announced triumphantly. He emerged from the room, tapping one from the pack. With a mischievous smile, George reached out and plucked it from the pack before Pete could. He stuck it between  his lips before Pete could grab it back.

“Swine,” Pete muttered.

George followed the older boy down the stairs and out into the damp Hamburg night. They stepped quickly, mindful of the time that had elapsed.

“Let’s cut through ‘ere,” Pete said, turning from the well lighted main drag, populated with sailors, prostitutes and the merely curious, and into an alley that would lead them almost directly to the stage door of the Kaiserkeller.

“Cor, it’s dark in ‘ere,” George commented as he slowed, afraid of tripping. He could not see the ground in front of him.

“Afraid of the dark, Georgie?” Pete teased.

“Course not.”

Pete grinned to himself. His smile abruptly left his face a few paces farther. Out of the darkness stepped several shadowy figures to block their path. Pete stopped and George drew up beside him.

A sudden jolt of fear coursed through George. He took a long, deep drag from his cigarette, both to calm his nerves and, he hoped, to appear unconcerned. His childhood in the poor part of Liverpool had taught him a few things.

“Umgeben Sie sie,” one said, and the strangers began to form a circle around the two musicians. Surround them.

Pete smiled amiably and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said softly.

The apparent leader, who was about Pete’s size, sidled up to the drummer. George continued sucking on his cigarette as if his life depended on it. He hoped that it was too dark for anyone to see him trembling, but the shaking of the glowing ember on the end of his cigarette gave him away.

The youth said a few things in German, eliciting various reactions from his friends ranging from head nodding to laughter.

“You…peedles?” the leader said to the amusement of the other toughs. They laughed at the slang for the male genitalia that the name “Beatles” so closely resembled.

“Beatles,” George said indignantly. Pete shot him a look of warning.

The boy smiled. “Peedles.” He made an obscene gesture and the others laughed.

“We’ll just be on our way,” Pete tried again, and made a move as if to slip past them and indeed be on his way.

“Ergreifen Sie ihn!” Grab him!

An unseen youth behind Pete lunged forward and grabbed the drummer, pulling his arms behind his back. The boy in front of him landed a hard punch to Pete’s left jaw, snapping his head to the side.

“Hey!” George cried, his fear temporarily pushed aside. He almost tossed his cigarette down, then changed his mind. He thrust the lit end towards the face of Pete’s restrainer, touching the delicate flesh of the boy’s cheek.

“Ach!” the boy cried, releasing Pete’s arms.

“Run!” Pete commanded, turning and sprinting away, followed by George and the angry Germans.

The two Beatles quickly reached the crowded street, ducking and dodging through the tipsy revelers in their attempt to lose the thugs. They ran for several blocks, drawing angry glares from the passersby they bumped and jostled along the way. George kept Pete in sight ahead of him while occasionally glancing back to see if the Germans were still following. He almost did not see Pete turn abruptly down a side street.

“George!”

George looked around frantically before he spotted Pete waving to him. Keeping his head down, he burrowed through the crowd and joined his bandmate. They flattened themselves against a brick wall and tried to catch their breath. The two stood silent for a couple of minutes, unsure if they were out of danger or not.

“Cor, that was close,” Pete panted finally.

“Too close,” George said breathlessly. He closed his eyes and leaned back. He could hear his pulse pounding fast and strong in his ears. Visions of Derry’s battered drummer swam through his mind. That could’ve been us!  Although never one to back away from a confrontation, George had been spooked mightily by this episode. They’d been outnumbered, certainly, and the atmosphere of the Reeperbahn made the situation feel more menacing than his familiar neighborhood back home. He swiped his leather-jacketed sleeve across his forehead.

Pete, calmer now, studied his friend, who was still shaking. “You all right, mate?”

“Sure,” George said with as much confidence as he could muster. He forced a smile. “We got away, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Pete muttered. “This time.”

George said nothing. They stood a minute longer before Pete said, “Thanks, by the way.”

“Are you hurt?” George asked.

“Nah, just sore.” Pete rubbed his jaw. “Not as bad as the other bloke I’ll bet.” He smiled at George. “That must’ve smarted, what you did.”

George smiled in satisfaction. He was rather pleased with himself. “We’d better go,” he said. “They’ll be wonderin’ where we are.”

“Right.”

***

“Where the fuck are they?” Lennon asked caustically. He caught Bruno’s disapproving eye from across the club. The band needed to get back on stage.

“P’raps they got an offer they couldn’t refuse,” Stu speculated, waggling his eyebrows.

“Speaking of,” John said, pointedly looking Paul’s way. The bassist was making good time with the fetching lass he had zeroed in on. She sat on a bar stool with her knees apart, her chest thrust towards Paul, and he occupied the space between her legs, his arm draped across her shoulder. She licked her lips suggestively as she gazed up adoringly into his boyish face. John, Stu and Astrid watched, amused, as Paul bent to kiss the girl passionately. She threw her arms around his neck and his hands roamed up and down her sides, drawing indecently close to her breasts, which strained against the tight sweater she wore.

“I vonder if she speaks English,” Astrid mused.

“Who cares?” Stu said. “They don’t need words for what they’re up to.”

“Watch this,” John said, a gleam in his eye. He stood and picked up the beer Pete had left. John sauntered over to the amorous couple and snuck up behind Paul, whose attention was focused solely on the girl. He poured the beer on the back of Paul’s neck, causing him to jump back in shock, almost knocking the girl off her stool. Several nearby patrons chuckled.

“Bloody…!” Paul sputtered, whirling to face John, who only smiled gleefully. “I’ll shatter ye, Lennon!” Paul threatened.

“Let’s see you try, son,” John answered, his eyes glinting.

“Fine, let’s take it out back!” Paul challenged.

“Ready when you are, mate,” John answered.

A beefy hand came down on Paul’s shoulder. He flinched, and turned to see the face of Horst, the bouncer. “You jungen haffing a problem?”

“No, course not, Horst,” Paul answered with a smile.

“Nein,” John agreed pleasantly. “Not us.”

“Bruno vants you back on stage,” Horst said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Jetzt.”

“Right.” Paul smiled and turned back to the girl, who had watched the confrontation, wide-eyed. He moved in close to her and whispered a few things and she nodded.

Paul joined John as if nothing had happened. “Pete and George’re back?”

“No but we’ll start without ‘em,” John said, moving through the audience toward the stage.

“But how?” Paul asked, stopping in his tracks.

“Easy. You’re on drums.” John secretly delighted in assigning Paul to Pete’s job.

Paul frowned. Although a competent drummer, he did not enjoy being tucked away behind a drum set. He preferred being up front, singing and making eyes at the girls. Besides, that would leave Stu alone on bass and Paul could not stand Stu’s incompetence on the instrument. Blast George and Pete for causing this, anyway!

Paul reluctantly took his place on the stool behind the drum kit while John and Stu readied themselves in front. They launched into an easy number, “Ain’t She Sweet.” They sounded like shite, Paul thought.

***

Pete and George walked warily back towards the Kaiserkeller, keeping a constant eye out for the German gang.

“I hope you remember your ciggies tomorrow night,” George joked.

Pete pulled the pack from his pocket and offered one to George. “Maybe tomorrow they’ll be after the Hurricanes,” he said, “and forget about us ‘peedles’.”

George chuckled and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Pete suddenly stopped. “Shit.”

George let his gaze wander to where Pete was looking. There were the four German toughs, standing in a circle and conferring among themselves. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Come on,” Pete said quietly, grabbing George’s arm and pulling him into another alley.

“Not in the alley!” George argued. “If we stay out on the street they’ll leave us alone!”

“How d’you know? Seems to me they’re intent on getting us anywhere they can.”

“They won’t bust us up in front of the whole crowd,” George asserted.

“Do you want to take the chance?” Pete asked.

The red haired boy turned and spotted the two. “Dort sind sie!” He yelled, gaining the others’ attention. There they are!

“Fuck,” Pete uttered. “Not again.”

“Run!” George cried, throwing down his cigarette. The lads took off down the alley at a dead sprint, followed closely by the Germans.

They emerged on a back street and ran in an unfamiliar direction. The Germans were gaining on them. George and Pete made another few turns to try to lose their pursuers, but without success. The Teds were too determined to be ditched that easily.

“Down here!” Pete wheezed, winded from running and fear.

They bolted down the dark pathway and stopped abruptly. They’d met a dead end. Tall brick buildings bordered both sides while a ten foot high wooden fence closed off the end. Sounds of running water and clanging dishes could be heard from the kitchen area of an establishment in one of the buildings. Flimsy cardboard boxes formed an irregular pile against the fence. A single light suspended from one corner of a building provided the only illumination. Pete and George whirled around, assessing their options, which at the moment seemed few.

“Did they follow us?” Pete whispered.

“I don’t see them,” George said. “Wait, I hear something.”

Both boys stood stock still and listened. They heard the sounds of the Germans’ boots pounding against the cobblestone.  George and Pete stared behind them, horrified to see the predators appear at the entrance to the alley.

“Come on!” Pete urged. He grabbed a metal trashcan lying on its side and set it upside down on the pavement in front of the high fence. The ruckus caught the Germans’ attention.

“Erhalten Sie sie!” Get them!

Pete scampered up onto the rickety can and bent his knees, preparing to pounce.

“Hurry up!” George begged, his voice two pitches higher than usual.

Pete jumped powerfully, the force sending the can toppling over. He managed to grasp the top of the fence and scrambled to propel himself up and over.

In a blind panic, his mouth dry and his pulse racing, George righted the trash can and climbed onto it, his shaking legs nearly toppling the unstable platform. He jumped once, missing the top of the fence and nearly crashing back to the ground. Miraculously, he managed to land on the can and teetered for a moment before regaining his balance. He crouched to try again, leaping with all his might. His fingers hooked over the top of the fence and his toes scrabbled against the wood as he tried to gain purchase. Every tendon and muscle in his forearms screamed in protest as he strained to pull himself upward. Then an iron grip clamped onto his right ankle and pulled.

“No!” George instinctively cried, kicking and trying to dislodge it. He inched downward, still holding on with all his might. “Pete!”

Another grip took hold of his left ankle and gave a hard jerk. George lost his hold on the fence and tumbled down, his ribs painfully striking the edge of the trash can and tipping it over as he fell.

“Stehen Sie auf!” Get up!

Hands roughly grabbed George’s arms and hauled him to his feet. Just as Pete’s arms had been before, George’s were restrained behind him, leaving him vulnerable.

“Er schüttelt,” the boy holding him said, and they all laughed cruelly. He’s shaking.

“Sind Sie erschrocken?” the leader asked, standing very close to George’s face. Are you scared?

The single light fixture was behind the boy’s head, casting his face in dark shadows. George could only look at him in bewilderment, not daring to answer yes or no, for fear he’d make the wrong choice. He struggled to calm his trembling.

The leader said something to the others and they nodded, smiling menacingly. He stepped even closer to George, his hot, rancid breath in the guitarist’s face. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” Spit sprayed from his mouth into George’s face, making him cringe.

George shook his head. This phrase he knew. No, he did not speak German. Unfortunately.

“Sie sind hübsch,” he crooned, drawing the back of his hand tenderly down the side of George’s face, in an imitation of Astrid’s gesture back at the club. You’re pretty. The other boys cackled in delight at their leader’s antics and at the confused and scared expression on their quarry’s face.

God, just beat me up and get it over with, George thought. He blinked rapidly, giving away his nervousness.

The leader stared at George for a long moment. With lightning speed, the same hand that had so gently caressed George’s face a minute ago, backhanded him sharply across his cheekbone. “Haben Sie keine Weisen? Sie sind angenommen, vielen Dank zu sagen,” the youth seethed. Have you no manners? You’re supposed to say thank you.

His face stinging, George raised his eyes to meet his tormenter’s.

The leader shook his head and stepped back. “Er ist noch zu hübsch.” He’s still too pretty.

The others nodded in agreement. One of them said, “Ich werde ihn reparieren.” I will fix him.

“Gehen Sie voraus.” Go ahead.

The other boy approached George with a look of happy anticipation. George saw him draw his fist back and he struggled to get free, but the one holding him only tightened his grip. Pain exploded in the middle of his face as the boy’s fist smashed against it. George gasped in shock, vaguely aware of snickering and much chattering in German. Had he not been held he would have collapsed to the ground. He felt a flood of warmth ooze over his mouth and chin. Blood.

He opened his eyes but could not focus. Images split in two and re-emerged into one. There were four boys, then eight, then four again, all out of focus. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth, and he yearned to spit. Before he knew it, another blow came, this time to his mouth. His head wrenched to the side and he was in no hurry to straighten it. Please let this be all.

No longer knowing, or caring, who was throwing the punches, George sagged in the arms of the boy who held him. A fist landed squarely in his stomach, the force driving bloody spittle from his mouth and knocking the wind from him. Two more blows followed in quick succession and George thought he was going to vomit. He was released to topple onto the ground face first. He broke his fall with his hand, scraping the skin off his palm. As he crouched on his hands and knees, struggling to draw in a breath, a boot connected with his side, and he collapsed the rest of the way to the damp cobblestones.

George protectively wrapped his arms around his middle and huddled against a second kick, which caught him in the flank. An involuntary grunt escaped his bloodied lips. He was dizzy with pain and the inability to take a deep enough breath to satiate his oxygen starved brain. He began to wonder if they were going to beat him to death.

He felt his right arm wrenched away from his body and a tremendous weight placed on it, just above his wrist, crushing it excruciatingly against the pavement.

“Stomp auf seiner hand,” someone said. Stomp on his hand.

George gasped in pain and horror. “No!” He was sure his arm was breaking; it had to be. He blinked an image into focus, of a boot planted squarely on his thin arm. He tried to free it but the force was too strong. Someone was standing on his arm.

Then, suddenly, miraculously, the pressure disappeared and the gang members scattered. All he heard now was the ringing in his ears. He had no idea that a door had opened twenty feet away and a dishwasher had stepped out to dump a pail of dirty water into the alleyway. He paid scant attention to the gang of youths running down the alleyway and he did not notice the figure on the ground.

George dragged his maimed arm in closer to his body again as he lay on his side, his knees drawn up, his head scraping against the rough stones with each movement. Any thoughts of running away were quickly dismissed. He could concentrate only on breathing, which caused sharp stabbing pains in his sides and belly. He spat, but the taste of blood remained. His nose and mouth throbbed. A rush of warmth invaded his arm and his fingers felt alternately tingly and numb. He could do nothing but lie there.

***

Pete fell for what seemed an eternity before landing hard on his feet, pain shooting up through his ankles and into his knees. The drop on the other side of the fence was apparently a bit longer than the ten feet the fence appeared from the alley. He grimaced a few seconds until the pain lessened, then he stood and moved out of the way. George would be launching over at any second, and, even as skinny as the kid was, Pete had no desire to be his landing cushion.

But instead of seeing George, he heard a muffled shout of “Pete!”

“Oh no…no. Come on, George,” Pete mumbled, staring up hopefully at the top of the fence. A full minute passed. Pete walked in circles, confused as to what to do. “Shit,” he said, over and over. He looked around at his surroundings. He had no idea where he was or how to get back to where he’d left George. It was apparent now, though, that he’d have to find his way back. George had not made it.

Pete would not let himself think of the myriad ways they might have beaten, tortured, or mutilated his friend. He would only think of trying to get back to him. He’d deal with the situation when he found him. Knowing George, the wiry guitarist had managed to slip away before they got too many licks in. In fact, they’d all have a laugh later, when Pete finally returned to the club, only to find George, smiling and asking what took him so long. Yeah, that’s what would happen.

Pete walked in a direction that seemed the most logical, though he had no idea if he was going the right way to end up back where George might be. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, aware that the damn cigarettes had caused all this in the first place.

***

John, Paul and Stu continued to limp through another set, crippled by their lack of two critical band members. Paul put in a minimal effort, his resentment at getting stuck on drums growing with each number. Stu struggled to play the right notes. John aped it up onstage, singing in funny accents and voices, contorting his body to comic effect, and spending extra time on between-song chatter.

After a particularly painful rendition of “All Shook Up,” Bruno motioned the trio off the stage. John set his guitar down roughly and made a bee-line for their table, where Astrid and Klaus sat waiting. Paul and Stu followed more slowly, not anxious for the lecture they were sure was coming from the bombastic German club owner.

“Vhat eez dees?” he asked, gesturing wildly. “I hire five musicians, not sree! I pay you for five musicians!” He waved his hand, all five fingers outstretched.

“They’ll be back,” John answered calmly, taking a swig of beer.

“Vhere are zhey? Out haffing sex?” Bruno’s face was red. “I do not pay zhem to haf sex!”

“Who do you pay for sex, then?” John asked glibly. “Bet you have to pay a lot.”

“You laugh now,” Bruno scolded. “You von’t laugh vhen you don’t get paid!” He stomped away angrily.

“Fuckin’ Best,” Lennon muttered.

“What about George?” Paul asked. “He’s late too.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Nah, George wouldn’t stand us up,” Stu opined. “Maybe something’s wrong.”

“All that’s wrong is that ever since little Georgie lost his – finally – that’s all he ever thinks about,” Paul said.

“Look who’s talkin’!” John crowed.

“At least I take care of me obligations first!” Paul defended himself. “And I don’t leave me mates high and dry.”

“Oh I can think of a few times,” John said. “There was that time you were late to the Jac ‘cos you were shaggin’ Dot… and the time you were late to the Angel because you were shaggin’…”

“I wasn’t that late,” Paul protested, smiling smugly.

“True, you’re a quick artist… least that’s what the birds say.”

“Fuck off, Lennon. You’re jealous.”

“Oh yeah, fuck me, I’m jealous of baby face here.”

Stu, Astrid and Klaus smiled, enjoying the verbal sparring between the two competitive friends.

“Do you really sink Bruno von’t pay you?” Astrid asked.

“He’d better not fuckin’ try,” John said.

“Maybe ve should go back to ze kino and try to find zhem,” Astrid suggested to Stu.

“Nah,” Stu said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

***

After wandering around for what seemed an hour, but in reality was only 15-20 minutes, Pete spotted a familiar landmark, a neon sign he’d noticed earlier despite his and George’s frantic escape attempt. Pete looked around and saw the entrance to the narrow alley they had entered. There!

Hoping upon hope he would not find George, Pete cautiously made his way down the pathway. He startled when he stepped into a puddle, the cold water sloshing up to his ankle. He heard a scratching noise and jerked his head, realizing it was probably a rat. This place was giving him the spooks and he wished only to find it empty so he could hightail it out of there and back to the club.

Up ahead, a dark form was barely visible on the ground. Pete felt his heart sink. No. He rushed forward and crouched next to the recumbent figure, who was lying curled up facing away from the light.

“George?”

A moan was his only response.

“George? Come on, it’s me.” He gently shook George’s shoulder. At least he’s not dead!

“Pete.” The voice was weak but undoubtedly that of George.

“Are ye all right, mate?”

George did not reply. He squirmed a bit on the ground.

“Come on, we need to get back,” Pete said. “I’ll help you up.” He grasped George’s arm.

“No.”

Pete sighed. “Come on, you’ll be all right. I’ll help you.”

“I…can’t.”

“Sure you can. I’ll help ye.”

“No.” Another moan.

“Look, I know you’re a bit banged up. But you’ll be all right. You need to get up and moving, that’s all.”

“I…can’t.”

“George,” Pete said more sternly. “Are your legs hurt?”

A pause, and then, “no.”

“Good. Then, as soon as I help you up, you’ll be fine. I promise.” Come on, George!

Pete waited. When George did not relent, he took matters into his own hand. “All right, let’s have you. Give me your arm.” He started to grab George’s right arm, eliciting a sharp gasp from the boy.

“Not…that one.” George panted through his pain.

“Okay, the other one, then.” Pete repositioned himself to use George’s left arm. He kneeled and braced George’s back with one arm, while gently pulling him into a sitting position. George whimpered throughout the painful maneuver. Once he got George sitting up, he gave him a few moments to recover before the next step. Though the light was dim, he could clearly see the dark stains of blood on George’s face and t-shirt.

“Right, then. Bend your knees. I’m goin’ to stand you up.” Pete looped George’s left arm around his neck and encircled George’s waist with his other arm. He took a deep breath and hoisted.

“Aaahhhhhhhh,” George cried out. “Ohh…ah…ah…sh…ff…”

“Come on!” Pete cajoled. George’s legs threatened to buckle underneath him and Pete bore most of his weight.

“Fuckin…hurts!” George protested, his voice high and strained.

“I’ve got ye. Come on, just walk.” Pete gently nudged George forward and almost lost his balance when George’s legs gave out. “Christ, George. You almost took us both to the mat!”

“S-sorry,” George slurred. His breathing became uneven, the uncontrolled sharp intakes a dead giveaway: he was crying.

Pete felt a rush of sympathy, yet he did not want to let on that he noticed. That would only add insult to injury. Best to let George retain a smidgen of dignity. He resolved, however, to be more patient.

The walk back to the Bambi Kino was slow and arduous. Pete was forced to stop twice to let George sit and catch his breath. George would sit hunched over, his left arm bracing his side, his right arm lying limp in his lap. With his head bent forward, Pete was unable to get a good look at his face, but he was pretty sure George had taken a beating there too. He was audibly breathing solely through his mouth, so Pete surmised he had gotten his nose punched, maybe even broken.

Pete had to gently coax George back to standing and walking each time; otherwise he thought George would gladly curl up on the sidewalk and pass out. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the entrance to their sleeping quarters. The last hurdle was getting George up the stairs. Pete was exhausted and drenched in sweat by this time. The adrenaline of earlier had long worn off and he longed for relief. But he did not dare go back to he club and let on what had happened. No, he’d have to hedge as much as he could.

Pete hoisted George up one step at a time. George had stopped talking by this point, his only verbalizations being painful moans and groans. At the top of the stairs, Pete switched on the overhead light and awkwardly shuffled his load into the room. He positioned George in front of his saggy couch and prepared to lower him down. “Okay, George…this is it. You can lie down now.”

Pete tried to lower George slowly but he was too limp and dropped to the creaky cushions with a painful grunt. Pete almost collapsed on top of him. Raising up, he winced as he got a good look at George in the light.

The teen lay there panting shallowly. He stared blankly up at Pete. His face was pale under the dried blood that crusted across his mouth and chin. One eye was turning dark purple, as was the bridge of his nose. His bottom lip was swollen and split. An angry abrasion marred his cheek and forehead. He cradled his right arm in his left hand. Blood stained the front of his white t-shirt.

“Cor, they got you good, mate.” Pete stood a minute, unsure what to do. He finally picked up the Union Jack flag the boys had been using as a makeshift blanket and draped it over George. “Hang on,” he said, disappearing down the hall. He returned with a pathetic looking pillow from his own bed. Pete gently cradled George’s head as he stuffed the pillow underneath. He stood back to admire his work.

“You look nice and comfy now,” he said. George moaned softly, his eyes drifting shut. “I better get back to the club. Rest easy, now.”

Relieved to have gotten George back all right, Pete skipped back down the steps lightly. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain George’s absence. He’d think of something.

***

Paul pounded out a steady, if unimaginative, beat, driving the music along. He turned at the touch he felt on his shoulder. It was Pete. Paul happily relinquished drumming duties to the errant drummer. John, hearing the interruption in the beat, looked back to see Pete resuming his place in the band. John looked around but there was no George. He had to return his attention to the microphone.

Paul quickly stepped to the front of the stage and donned his favorite instrument, the guitar. A smile crossed his face for the first time in an hour. He was back where he belonged. He played enthusiastically, ad-libbing some inventive guitar flourishes to the number. With Pete back drumming and Paul putting forth an effort, the group sounded much more cohesive.

The song ended with a bang, and the crowd showed its appreciation with applause and wolf whistles. John looked at Pete again, his expression questioning. When Pete avoided his gaze, John abruptly called a break, even though they were only halfway through a set. John loitered on stage until Pete stepped down from his drums. He immediately sidled up to Pete.

“Where’ve you been? Where’s George?” he demanded.

Pete would not look him in the eye. “He’s not comin’ back tonight.”

“Why not?” John would not let Pete turn away.

“He, uh… he’s ill.” Pete looked everywhere but at Lennon.

“He was fine when he left.”

“Well, he’s not now.”

“Where were you? You were gone over an hour!”

“Look, I’m back, okay?” Pete retorted. “Mind your business.”

“This band is my business,” John seethed. “I’m the one who had Bruno breathin’ down me neck!”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“So where is George?”

“He’s back at the Kino. In bed.”

 “Alone?”

“Yes, he’s alone! He’s ill, I told you!” Pete turned his back on John and pretended to adjust his cymbal.

John felt Pete was covering something up, but he didn’t know what or why. If George was shaggin’ some bird, he couldn’t imagine Pete covering for him. The two of them were not particularly tight. Then again, why would George, who was perfectly fine earlier, suddenly be too ill to play? None of it made sense. He stormed off the stage to the table.

Stu, Astrid and Klaus stopped talking when John plopped himself down.

“John, vhere ees George?” Astrid asked.

“Pete says he’s sick.”

“Seeck?” She shook her head. “But he vas fine!”

John shrugged. “I don’t know what’s goin on. Pete’s actin’ queer. What else is new.” He took a long pull off his pint of beer. The whole fiasco had ruined John’s mood for the night.

“Perhaps ve should check on him?” She suggested. She looked to Stu for his thoughts.

Now Stu shrugged. “Pete says he’s sick, he’s sick. Probably took too many prellies.”

“He took the same as you,” John argued.

Astrid backed off, for the time being. Although she had a funny sense that something was amiss, she decided to place her trust in Stu’s judgment.

***

Pete knew John was suspicious of his excuses. As he watched from the stage, he saw Stuart get up to go to the lavatory. Pete followed him.

He found Stu using the wall urinal. He leaned against the wall facing his bandmate. Stu, annoyed at the intrusion, turned his shoulder to block Pete’s view.

“Stu, I need your help,” the drummer said.

“You need my help? Sorry, mate.” Stu zipped up his jeans. “I can’t even play the bass, let alone help you on the skins.”

“Not that kind of help.”

Stu looked at the drummer. This was highly unusual, indeed. He and Pete were not particularly close, and Pete never acted needy of anyone’s help. If nothing else, Stu was curious.

“What, then?”

“You’re good friends with John,” Pete stated.

“Sure. So?”

“What’s he gonna do when he finds out I lied to ‘im?”

“You lied to him?” Stu asked, incredulous. “How big a lie?”

“Pretty big,” Pete admitted.

Stu was intrigued. He wanted to know more. Maybe this had something to do with Pete and George’s long disappearance. “Does this have to do with you takin’ off this eve?”

Pete nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

Stu smiled. “Was she worth it?”

“Who?”

“Were you shaggin’ some bird or what?”

“No! We…”

“What?”

“We got jumped. Germans.”

“No lie?”

Pete shook his head.

“You look all right,” Stuart remarked.

“I am.”

“Why din’t you jus’ tell him to start with?”

“Because… I was afraid of what he’d do.”

“About what?”

“Well, George… he, uh, got it pretty bad.”

Stu’s eyes widened. “How’d that happen?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You were s’posed to look out for each other,” Stu accused.

“I did! I mean, I tried! I couldn’t help it. I got away and… he din’t.”

Stu shook his head in disgust and mentally vowed to not accompany Pete anywhere. “How bad is he hurt?”

“He’ll be okay,” Pete answered uncertainly.

“Well if he’s hurt enough not to play he must be a lot worse than you!”

Pete shrugged. “You could say that.”

“First of all, you’d better ‘fess up straight away. Then maybe – maybe – he won’t kill you.” Stu was thinking John probably would anyway.

Pete looked crestfallen.

“Second of all, I’m going to send Astrid and Klaus over to check on George.” When Pete did not protest, Stu knew it was the right decision. “I should’ve listened to her in the first place.” He finished drying his hands and started to leave, stopping just before opening the door. “I meant it. You’d better tell him.” Stu abruptly left, leaving Pete staring at the closed door.

He wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

***

Stu was glad to find John away from the table when he returned. He slid into his seat.

“Stu, vhat is going on?” Klaus asked.

Stu leaned forward on his elbows. “Look, I need a favor from you two.”

Astrid and Klaus exchanged glances. “Of course,” she said. “Vhat is it you vant us to do?”

“Go to the Kino and look in on George.”

“Vhy, Stu?” Astrid said.

Stu looked around to make sure John was not coming. “Pete just told me the truth. George got beat up tonight.”

Astrid gasped. “Oh no, not George.”

“Beat up? By who?” Klaus asked.

“I don’ know,” Stu said. “There’s been talk around… the German teds are targeting English musicians. Derry and the Seniors had their drummer jumped. He’s in hospital.”

“My god,” Astrid breathed. She started to don her jacket.

“Oh, one other thing,” Stu said. “Don’t mention anything to John. Pete hasn’t told him.”

***

Astrid and Klaus crept into the dankness that was the Beatles’ living quarters. They felt their way up the stairs in the dark, careful not to trip.

“He must be asleep,” Astrid said.

At the top, Klaus fumbled for a light switch. He had a vague recollection of a low wattage bulb suspended from the water stained ceiling of the hallway, though he’d only been here during the day so he didn’t know if it worked. He switched on the light, relieved by the faint glow it cast upon the surroundings. The once-elegant wallpaper, now stained and faded, hung in shreds on the wall. The hardwood floor sported a threadbare strip of carpet that had once been plush, but now was beyond pathetic.

Klaus hung back while Astrid approached the room where George slept. She stuck her head inside and listened for George’s breathing. Instead of the slow, steady cadence of a person sleeping peacefully, she heard rapid, uneven breaths coming from the direction of his couch.

“So?” Klaus asked.

“Who’s there?” George’s strained voice came from the dark room. He sounded panicked.

“George?” Astrid said.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“It’s just me, George. Astrid. And Klaus is vith me too,” she answered. “May ve come in?”

“All right,” he answered weakly.

“Don’t vorry, it is just us,” she said as she flipped on the light switch.

Astrid tried to hide her shock. George was barely recognizable behind the blood and bruises on his face. He stared at her dully as she swept into the room and knelt beside him.

“Oh, my poor George, Liebliches Kind,” she crooned, pushing a lock of hair off his forehead.

“As’rid,” he whispered. He looked ready to cry.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Ve did not mean to frighten you.”

“You…didn’t,” he said unconvincingly.

Astrid looked at Klaus and smiled. She turned back to George.

“Vhere are you hurt?”

George smiled ruefully. “Where aren’t … I hurt.”

Astrid tenderly ran her fingertips over George’s bruised cheekbone, causing him to wince. “How could zhey?” Her face was filled with sorrow. “How many of zhem were dere?”

George’s face clouded over. “I don’ know,” he answered softly. He changed the subject. “How…why… are you here?”

“Stu vas vorried about you,” she said. “So ve came to see you.”

“Stu?”

“Ja. Vell, Pete told Stu. He became vorried.”

“What…time is it?”

“Is nearly 3. Ze boys should be finishing soon.”

George tensed and looked around distractedly. “As’rid?” George said. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Ja?”

“Could I…would you mind…if I talked to…Klaus…alone?” He squirmed, grimacing.

Astrid shot a questioning look to Klaus, who shrugged and took her place. George peeked to make sure Astrid was not listening.

“I…I need to…you know, use the lav…” George said quietly. “Maybe, if you could…help me…” His eyes were pleading.

Klaus smiled, amused at George’s modesty. “Of course! Vhat do you need? Help standing?”

“Everything,” George said. He wedged his left elbow against the couch cushion and attempted to sit up. Klaus braced behind his back and supported him. George gasped and let out a pain-filled moan. Klaus got him into an upright position and swung his feet down onto the floor. George panted through the pain. He held his posture very stiffly.

“You ready to stand?” Klaus asked.

George shook his head. “Gimme a… minute.” He closed his eyes, sucking his swollen lip between his teeth. “Okay… help me up. This arm.” George offered his left arm.

Klaus stooped to wrap George’s arm around his neck. Without warning, he stood, pulling George up with him. Once standing, George swayed a bit, but Klaus still had a secure hold on him. “You okay?”

“I really…need…” The pain of his need to void overrode the pain everywhere else in his body.

“Ja, let us go.”

Klaus half-dragged George to the lavatory, Astrid observing from a discrete distance. George’s extreme weakness and the severe pain he appeared to be suffering unnerved her. 

Klaus positioned George before the urinal and waited, but George slowly pitched forward until his forehead rested against the cool plaster wall. His left arm steadied him while his right stayed bent near his body.

“George?” Klaus leaned in to see George’s face, which was startlingly pale.

“I don’…I…” George stammered.

“Do it now so you can lie back down,” Klaus encouraged, hoping he would not have to help George in any more personal way.

George slowly and painstakingly reached down and unfastened his jeans, his movements clumsy. He let out a groan as he relieved himself. Klaus glanced into the urinal and was startled at what he saw. He looked back to see if Astrid was nearby but she had not come into the lavatory.

When George finished, he stood there limp, not attempting to re-secure his pants. Klaus reached around him from behind and somehow got him fastened back up without touching anything directly. George did not seem to be concerned, at any rate. He was close to collapse.

Klaus manhandled George back to the couch the same way he’d done before. Astrid helped to lay him down easily. George was white and breathless and lethargic, more than before. This alarmed Astrid. But before she could say anything, Klaus pulled her to the middle of the room.

“Es gibt Blut in seinem Urin!” he said under his breath. He has blood in his urine!

“Mein Gott! She said. “Er braucht einen Doktor.” He needs a doctor. “Wir können ihn in meinem Auto nehmen.” We can take him in my car.

“Ja, aber wie werden wir ihn unten bewegen?” Yes, but how will we move him downstairs?

“Vielleicht können die anderen Jungen helfen.” Maybe the other boys can help.

“Ich werde erhält sie gehen.” I’ll go get them.

Astrid nodded briskly. “Eile!” Hurry!

Part Two Coming Soon!

Suzanne Warren is a 41 year old Beatles fan, living in the southwest U.S.  She has been a fan forever, since she remembers sitting and studying her older sister's Beatles albums as a very young child (and if she was good, she'd even play them for me). At the age of 13, her fandom blossomed into full blown Beatlemania. She began reading and collecting everything she could get her hands on. She has amassed a fairly impressive collection of books, articles, records, trading cards, etc. that are vintage and wonderful. They're her prized possessions. It's been a part of her life ever since, and she doesn't wish to ever be cured of this disease.

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