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Thursday, April 30, 2015

Sunshine, Mountains, Lake and Music

What more could you want ? 
The above surely makes for a beautiful Sunday.
So, Christin ( who needs a little diversion ) and I drove through the Carinthian countryside, ending up in the town of Ossiach, situated on Lake Ossiach.

It so happened that on this Sunday, April 26, the "Jugend Sinfonie Orchester" of Carinthia gave a concert in the Alban Berg Concert Hall. 
Why not add "Music" to Sunshine, Mountains and a Lake ?
Concert starting time at 2PM gave us enough time for a light lunch and off we went to the Concert Hall.

I estimate that the Orchestra consisted of about 50 to 60 members who produced a lovely rich sound.

The big surprise were two soloists:
Anna Rupitsch, about 18 years of age, played a flute. 
Flawlessly executed with a mellow sound she gave one the feeling of an experienced concert flautist,
playing a composition called: "Fantasie für Flöte und Orchester".
What a pleasure.
Then onto the stage came a young man, also about 18 years old who played a violin like a seasoned pro.
Luka Ljubas had absolutely no problems with the rapid finger work demanded by Sarasate's 
"Gypsy Melodies", nor later by the almost equally demanding "Theme from Schindler's List".

There are surely great musical futures waiting for Anna and Luka.



Anna Rupitsch 



Luka Ljubas


Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Is there something better ?

The saying below was uttered by Baha 'U' Llah, the founder of the Bahai Faith sometime after 1884.
Like every religion, the Bahai Faith speaks of the relationship between God and Man, as well as between Man and Man. (whereby the word „Man“ is, of course, gender neutral )

Many years ago I happened upon this – let me call it - religion/philosophy and I was quite taken by the human to human teachings.
Unfortunately (for me) Baha 'U' Llah also spoke most forcefully about the relationship between „Man“ and „God“ and that is truly where I lost my enthusiasm for this movement.
My opinion about a „concerned God“, the uselessness of prayer and all the nonsensical dictates of the Christian, and all other religions is well known to my friends and to the readers of my Blog.

If I should be asked which I consider the most valuable biblical statement I would have to cite the „Golden Rule“.
Luke 6:31 and Mathew 7:12 both, as well as probably several others, speak of this command:

„Do to others as you would have them do to you“.

Once one can fully accept this „rule“ and actually practice it, nothing else would be of import.

The Bahai Faith too speaks of certain Social Principles:

„Unity of Humanity“ - The world is but one country and Mankind its Citizens. -
„Equality between Men and Women“
„Elimination of all Prejudice“
„Harmony of Religion and Science“
„Independent investigation of truth“
„Universal education“
„Universal Auxiliary Language“

There are several more Principles, which, as an Agnostic, I view with some caution, and some which I simply cannot accept.
I do not believe, however, that any of the Bahai's „mystical teachings“ compare to Christianity's ridiculously threatening prognostications.

I might suggest, that if all mankind would follow the Social Principles of the Baha'i Faith the world would surely be a better place in which to live and those who wish to add the Spiritual, faith-based teachings, may do so if this „turns them on“.

Bertstravels













Sunday, April 26, 2015

Think about it !... go on ! Just for a moment .. think about it






*********************




  THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT WHATEVER,


THAT, IF THE DAYSTAR OF JUSTICE,


WHICH THE CLOUDS OF TYRANNY 


 HAVE  OBSCURED,


 WERE TO SHED ITS LIGHT UPON MEN,


 THE FACE OF THE EARTH


 WOULD BE COMPLETELY  TRANSFORMED.

*********************

Baha’U’Llah  (1884)

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

SPRING HAS SPRUNG...

...the grass has ris'
I wonder where the birdies is...

(I think I said that last Spring. But I am too lazy to check back that far )

Here are some lovely harbingers of the new Season.



Somebody told me that these are "Japanese Mock Apples"

I know so little about Botany, they could have told me that they are 

"Chinese Ground Pears"

and I would probably believe it.


..all I know for sure is that they are mighty beautiful.



Daffodils in our garden.


Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Another O.P.

What is an O.P. ? 
Funny you should ask ! An O.P. is an Old Pun .!

"I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan Island.
It turned out, however, to be an Optical Aleutian.

Bertstravel 
is killing himself laughing

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Giselbert Hoke 1927 -2015

Yesterday, on Saturday, the 18th of April 2015, Giselbert Hoke, one of Austria's great painters died in a Klagenfurt hospital.
I was priviledged to get to know him and to produce a DVD of some of his work.
He was a prolific artist and I spent almost three days photographing and discussing his work.
(well, he did the discussing, I did the listening)
I wish I had recorded our conversation. As it is, however, I best remember one exchange:
When I referred to his work as "abstract", he said this:

In order to paint in the abstract, you need an object. In my work, the painting is the object.

It took some time to fully understand the meaning of this comment.

Here are some images I took back in 2011.


Giselbert Hoke, in 2011


He was always ready to assist me by holding several of his works in the best possible light.







Giselbert and his "Nada" collection:
He is reported to have said (not to me):
"You like Nothing, you feel Nothing, You love Nothing and you hate Nothing.
Then your Nothing becomes Something."


Frankly, I cannot combine the alledged above statement
with the work of an artist.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

loop de loop

From my desk drawer I took this sheet of white paper. It was immaculate, except for the word

SOAR

which appeared in the very center. Very faint at first, then with stronger and stronger print.
Oh, well, I thought, I just was not looking carefully enough at the beginning. This word must have been there always.
I don't remember having made the decision, but I folded it from the right hand upper corner to the left edge and with my thumb nail I made the crease really really sharp.
Then I took hold of the left hand upper corner and brought it to the right edge, performing the same „sharp crease“ exercise.
I did not seem to control my hands. I did not will them to do this or that.
It was, as if they made this paper aeroplane all by themselves..
When it was ready, much to my amazement, the word „Soar“ appeared on both wings.

I got up and stepped onto our balcony.
The sky was a crystal clear, blue.
The Mountain, seemingly just beyond St. Joseph's steeple seemingly at the end of our back yard, still snow covered and looking closer than ever before.
For a while I just looked at this so beautiful, yet so familiar scene.
Then I took „Soar“ ( by now it had adopted its own name ) firmly between thumb and fore finger of my right hand and tested its weight against the brisk morning air.
It felt as if it had a life of its own and was eager to fly.
With a mighty heave I gave it all the power I had in my arm and Soar truly soared.
It dipped and rose and dipped again and I thought „rise“ some more and then sail straight.
And it did: It rose and then, for a while, it flew straight.
And I thought: „bank to the left“ and, see there, as if following my command, it banked to the left.
Just to test my power over Soar I thought: „bank to the right“ and my paper plane banked to the right and then flew straight some more.
Having become almost giddy with power I thought: „Rise and make a full loop“
And it did!
It rose and when its nose was perpendicular, it looped in the wonderful, brilliant, brisk, cool air and when it had completed this „loop de loop“ it soared on and for a moment it disappeared behind the steeple of St Joseph, only to reappear on the other side.
I thought: „Hey, you beautiful paper plane, called Soar, do a gentle bank to the left and fly to the mountain. 
Fly to the snow covered mountain. 
Fly to the mountain which still harbours Winter, although Spring has arrived in the valleys. 
Fly on your own and become independent of my thoughts.
Don't listen to me any more, but become your own. Become true to your name: Soar and soar and land atop the mountain, on a weeping snow field, right next to the tip of a Snow Crocus, called:  „Hesitate, but Hope“.   

Be yourself and belong to no one. Not even to me, who has folded you and controlled you for a while, being almost ashamed now of this control.

If I ever find another blank sheet of paper on which it says „Soar“ or maybe „Soar II“,
I promise to make you a twin and let it land then on the wonderful mountain meadow, right amidst the blue „Enzian“, the red „Erika“ and a little higher up, maybe you will find an „Edelweis“

Right now, I had better get up, shave, shower and dress, and take a sheet of paper from my desk, out of which I might fashion a paper aeroplane.

Bertstravel
sometimes fantasizes


St. Joseph's Church, around which "SOAR" did his loop de loop.

behind, and in close up below,  is the mountain, snow covered in 

April. Still!




SOAR'S landing astrip.

Also called "The Petzen"



Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The End is the Beginning


In about two weeks (1st May) my home town, "Braunau am Inn" will be able to celebrate the 70th anniversary of the arrival of the "Black Cat Division" of the United States Army, signalling the end of World War II another 8 days hence and the final liberation of Europe from the brutal Nazi dictatorship.
I was 13 years of age then an enthusiastic member of the "Fanfare and Drum" band of the "Deutsche Jugend" and did not understand  the importance of this fact.
The happenings of these times remained in my memory in great detail to this day. It was not until about 20 years later that I decided to write an account of these months and I have now decided to post them on my Blog.

Here is the story in its entirety, as I wrote it these many years ago:


THE END IS THE BEGINNING

At that time, Kurt was a good friend of mine.
He and his mother were refugees from the Banat region. We both were 13 years of age and tried to fit into the time of 1945. Even at such a young age we vaguely suspected that the war reports we heard over the radio and which spoke of “strategic withdrawals” and a “shortening of the defensive front lines”, did not reflect the reality of the war.

It was the 30th of April and as often before, Kurt and I crossed the bridge over the river Inn, which was the border between Austria and Bavaria. Quickly we walked through the town of Simbach and turned down-river. We carried empty back bags which we hoped to fill up with eatables obtained in a variety of ways from small farms located there. On a foot path running parallel to the high way we marched along happily fully expecting to repeat earlier successes, and waved to the uninterrupted chain of military vehicles coming toward us and heading up-river. There were trucks, tanks, armoured all terrain vehicles, red-cross vans and trucks again. The unusual colour of the soldiers uniforms we ascribed to our Africa Chor.
That “enemy troops” could have reached our home land was totally unthinkable until a distinctive German military Volkswagen, coming from a narrow side road, was fired upon by a machine gun fixed on top one of the armoured cars. We turned and in shock we saw the white star emblazoned on the rear of all the vehicles.

Like two rabbits chased by a pack of dogs we raced cross-country in a desperate effort to put as much distance between us and this now threatening column of vehicles.
We ran and did not stop running until we reached the old abandoned brick factory half way up the hill range, called the “Marienhoehe” ( Mary’s heights) . About 30 to 40 German soldiers had gathered up there too, discarding rifles, hand guns, gas masks and any insignia identifying them as officers. A Lieutenant attempted to bring some order into the reigning chaos, but he had no success. Kurt and I climbed onto a wooden veranda which jutted out in front of the main building and which afforded a beautiful, unobstructed view across the river Inn and onto my home town, Braunau.

Our first attempt to return home failed. There were just too many American military vehicles and soldiers and the access to the bridge was barricaded. Throughout the day we roamed around Simbach.
There were very few locals on the streets and for a while we just sat on a curb and in fascination watched American tanks, armoured cars, trucks and, most of all American soldiers, several of whom urged us to “go home”

The night from 30th April to 1st May we spent in a hey loft of a small farm, which we picked because of its strategic location, just about squarely in between the hills behind and the river in front of us. We reasoned that during an artillery battle, the safest place would be in between the cannons.

It was a sleepless night. American artillery salvos whistled overhead. We heard the canon’s shot, the whistling overhead, then silence and then the impact explosion from afar.

It seemed to go like that all night long. The shot, the whistling, the silence and then the explosion.
Shot; whistling; silence; explosion. During this night we were convinced that our home town Braunau was being totally destroyed and would disappear from the face of the earth, and that our mothers and my sisters could not possible survive. That night I made plans how I would contact my brother, who was in America as a Prisoner of War, and how the two of us, the sole survivors of our family, would stay together. It was a cold, sleepless, desperate night. 
It is the 1st day of May 1945.
As dawn breaks we climb out of the hey and cautiously we leave the barn. Rounding the building we can hardly believe our eyes. In the distance, just as yesterday, the church steeple of my home town, next to which my family has lived for many years, reaches skyward, undamaged.

The ground surrounding us is covered by a light blanket of snow. And that on the 1st of May! We are hungry.
The farmer, who has likely not slept any more than we did, gives us a cup of hot milk and a slice of bread.
Right after this welcome breakfast we go into Simbach to make another try to cross the bridge.
We feel confident. Along the Innstrasse there are untold military vehicles. tanks, trucks, armoured cars. An American soldier leans down from his tank. He hands us a pack of chewing gum. He smiles as he tells us to “go home”…”go home”. He doesn’t know that our “home” is on the other side of the bridge. Aimlessly we wander around Simbach. It doesn’t seem possible to get anywhere near the bridge.

Suddenly I see Frau Dr. Prasser, our English teacher for the past 2 ½ years. Many of her belongings are piled on a pull-cart and she clearly is having a difficult time of it. We help her pull the cart along Innstrasse, where she lives.
She tells us that she wants to get out of the way when the shooting starts. Then she thanks us in English: “Thank you very much” she says and she smiles.

Kurt and I return to the brick factory. (I no longer remember why we felt safest there). Again we climb onto the wooden veranda.
It is noon as we gaze across the river. Suddenly there is a black cloud arising from the river. Its edges slowly turn pink, then all of it turns crimson. Only then do we hear a loud explosion and seconds later we feel warm air stroking our cheeks. It is with a sense of devastation that we finally realise that the bridge no longer spans the river.

After considerable deliberation we decide to cross over the railroad bridge, which is a relatively short distance down river. We make our way down to the river and, following a narrow hiking path , arrive, about an hour later, at the pump house, which pumps water from the river through four large cast iron pipes.

The explosion is absolutely horrific.
I am not certain: do we fling ourselves underneath the pipes, or is it the explosion which throws us there. I know, that we lie there, protected from the rain of iron and concrete blocks. The noise is indescribable. Suddenly it is silent and I can hear Kurt breathing.
The rail road bridge too is gone.

Our return to Braunau has become more and more difficult by the hour. Our determination to reach our shore, however, increases in equal measure.

Both bridges are gone. We can’t fly and this time of the year, on the first day of May, the river is still too cold to swim across. There is only one way out. I remember, that a short distance up-river from the pedestrian and vehicular bridge a side-arm of the river starts. We call it the “Sand-Box” and at its mouth a house boat is anchored, to which 4 or 5 row boats are always tied securely.
To avoid suspicion, we don’t run, but walk slowly up-river, we pass the ruins of the vehicular bridge, where several American soldiers scan the opposite shore through heavy binoculars. They look at us with some suspicion and again we hear: “Go home! Go home!”
There is nothing I would rather do than to “Go home”. Finally we reach the Sand Box.

Two 13 year old boys, somewhat dirty and torn, playing in the row boats, attract little attention. It is easy therefore to “borrow” two oars and a paddle for direction from the unlocked house boat. We “play” in one of the row boats until its rusty chain breaks lose from its connection.
A man, dressed in military pants, white shirt, but no jacket watches us and asks what we are planning.
He seems cold and non threatening, so we tell him, that we intend to pull the row boat up-river, far enough so that we can cross the river before getting swept into the remains of the bridge, reaching up from the fast flowing water. He too wants to get to Braunau and convinces us that his participation will enhance our chances for success. So we load him and his bicycle and jump into the row boat. Quickly we cross the Sand Box and then, with the chain and a rope we pull the boat up-river. It is only then that we notice that our helper’s right arm is in a plaster cast. His help is minimal. We pull the boat another 100 meters up-river to compensate for the additional load. Kurt suggests that a white flag, fastened to the bow of our boat, will indicate our peaceful intention. He has a white handkerchief, hardly used, and ties it to a willow branch, which in turn he fastens to the bow.

Kurt and I sit side by side and we row as hard as we can. Our “plaster cast” squeezes the paddle under his left arm and keeps the boat at a good angle. Kurt and I row as if our lives depended on it.

The river seems as wide as an Ocean. We row and row and now and then we glance over our shoulders to see how close we are to Braunau’s shore.
Finally we make it. We row around the little sandbar into the mouth of the river Enknach, a tributary of the river Inn. There we beach the boat, help our Plaster Cast/Pilot in unloading his bicycle and so, at about 5pm on the first day of May 1945, we climb the steps leading up to our town’s main square. There is a placard-box dangling on the side wall of the first building we come to. I remember it precisely:

It spoke of the death of the American President Roosevelt and it said:

The worst war criminal has gone to hell !
Let us redouble our efforts in our fight for freedom, liberty and bread.”

On the other side of the main square I see a man who suffers from a serious limp. He carries an automatic machine pistol slung over his right shoulder. I know him to see him, and cannot believe how this man obtains such a weapon. This man, Kurt and I are the only people in the main square. We head upwards and reach number 22, “my” house.

                                                Stadtplatz 22 .

Quickly we bid each other a “see ya” and I race upstairs, two flights. Our apartment is locked. There is no-one there.

Our neighbour’s daughter, Fritzi, comes rushing along the corridor.
“Where have you been?” she calls out loudly. “Your mother and your sisters are in the basement, worried sick about you.”
I fly downstairs and arrive in the basement with its arched ceiling. Most of our neighbours are there. So is my family. I can see only my mother and my two sisters. 
I rush to them, we hug silently and for the first time I cry.


                         *******************************



The Vehicular and Pedestrian Bridge spanning the river Inn
destroyed by the remnants of the retreating German Army.



Shortly after the Vehicular bridge, the Railroad bridge also was blown up.
and we were caught on the German side.

Sten Gun and hand grenades !

The second day of May 1945


The rumours are rampant: Braunau has to capitulate officially by 12 noon, or else an artillery bombardment will commence, which will not stop until the town is levelled. With most of the people still in the basements it is hard to understand how rumours travel. They just do.
The artillery fire of two nights ago had mostly been directed against some few hundred members of the German Wehrmacht in the forest area outside the town. Only a few errant salvos damaged some buildings on the main square: The Apothecary got a glancing blow and the church steeple was hit just above the clock face. The main hydro-electric station gets a full hit, knocking out power all over Braunau. White sheets hang from most windows and one suddenly appears high up on the steeple. A strange change from the swastika banners displayed before.

Hermann comes to get me. I can’t stand it in the basement, nor do I feel particularly comfortable in our apartment. I tell no-one. We leave and explore around town. It is uncanny. Not a store is open, shutters still down, and the very few people who are about scurry from place to place. Through the old gate at the end of the square we follow two women pulling a wooden cart. Two huge chestnut trees stand like sentinels in front of the Kaserne. The two women, still pulling their cart, disappear through the small door, set in the large double gates.
We follow and find ourselves in empty military quarters. We see the woman loading uniform-grey bolts of cloth.. I remember one of them bringing a large jar of pickles and some loaves of bread. They look at us askance suspecting rival plunderers. We open other doors and come to the armoury.

There are Sten guns and full magazines lying around. In one corner we find hand grenades, ignition caps and rolls of fuses. We unscrew and abandon the long handles and drop the heads into our securely fastened knickerbockers. Three in each pant leg, gives us 12 hand grenades. An equal number of ignition caps, and a length of fuse wrapped around our waist, underneath our shirts. It occurs to me and I tell Hermann that if one of the grenades were to explode it won’t matter that he is a haemophiliac. We are so used to this fact that we laugh about it. Hermann finds a pair of crimping pliers, which will later allow for the secure fastening of the fuse into the ignition cap. As a last minute thought, he grabs one of the Sten guns and two magazines. He loosens his belt, shoves the Sten down his pants and carries the magazines openly in his hands. We saunter non-chalantly back through the gate, then quickly up to our apartment, where we temporarily stash the grenades, ignition caps and fuse under my bed. At this time we have no idea what we would ever want them for. It gives us a swagger to know what we have done.

When we come to Hermann’s house, the Sten finds a hiding place in the attic. Hermann brings some old rags and the gun, and both magazines are wrapped tightly and wedged in where two beams meet in an acute angle.

It’s noon.

There are now more people in the main square. Some women are arguing with a group of men, among them the town’s Chief of Police.

The women, I know them all, insist that some of the men should row across the river and officially surrender Braunau to the American forces. There is no one left who could possibly fight for a lost cause.
Two groups of five men each finally pile into two row boats and cross the river.

Hermann and I go down to the river’s bank and sit on a concrete boulder, staring into the water which swirls around the torn bridge girders and struts. We munch on some rye bread and an apple each. Kurt joins us and we watch as a platoon of American soldiers works their way carefully across the remnants of the rail road bridge I did not see it, I heard about it later and I have never gotten it out of my mind that one of the Americans drowned in this attempt. I keep thinking, maybe he’s the one who gave us the chewing gum in Simbach and told us to go home. Even as I write this, so many years later, I feel a deep sense of sorrow. The war, to all intents and purposes is over. Maybe he’d written home that he is well, that he’ll be home soon. Then he never gets there. I would like it not to be true.

On the Simbach side of the river, we can make out the beginnings of a pontoon bridge being built.
The speed of progress is unbelievable. I think it takes less than two hours before the first trucks roll over it, and a long snake of infantry soldiers, guns slung over their shoulders walk over the slightly undulating bridge.


*********************






American Infantry and supplies roll across the Pontoon Bridge 
in a seemingly never ending stream. 






************


The fifth day of May 1945
I can hear Hermann’s familiar whistle from the church square below our living room window. I answer as always and rush down stairs. “I must get the ‘pots’ out of our apartment” I tell him. “We are getting 5 American officers quartered in our apartment. If they find the pots, they’ll shoot us.”

Again we walk through the town, heavily armed in our knickerbockers. We go to Hermann’s house. His parents run a knitting mill and a retail store of knitted ware. We sit in his basement, surrounded by neatly arranged shelves full of home made jams, marmalades, fruits and vegetables. I’ve never seen so much food at the same time in the same place. That’s why Hermann never bothers to go “food collecting” with Kurt and me. Hermann opens a jar of sliced red beats and we have ourselves a feast. Even down here we can hear the rhythmic chatter of the knitting machines.

We consider putting our ‘pots’ together with the ignition caps into one of the empty jars and place those in the back row of the preserves. We abandon this idea when it proves that the grenades won’t fit through the jars’ narrower necks. Finally we carefully remove the bottom board of one of the storage shelves and place the potentially devastating explosive cans on their side on the cobble stone ground. We replace the shelve and re-position the jars.

To keep the length of fuse dry, we place it , tightly curled, together with the ignition caps into an empty jar at the back row of the most recently dated ”put up” jam, reasoning that they would stay undisturbed the longest. Hermann places the crimping pliers carelessly into a box housing old tools.
Then we step back and admire our handiwork. “Gosh” says Hermann, “ you’d never suspect.”
Just then I note that it’s not only the clatter of the knitting machines I hear, but also the blood pounding in my head.

When I come home, my mother is frantic. They were looking for me all over, she says. (They weren’t looking in Hermann’s basement or they would have found me, surrounded by hand grenades.)
There is what seems like a whole platoon of American soldiers in our apartment. It turns out that there are five and they want quarters.
They indicate by gestures that they want this room and that one. I muster all my English language skills and tell them: “you cannot have this room. This is our ‘beautiful room’. We use it only when we have visitors.” One of the Americans turns to me. “Oh good, you speak English”. “Yes” I say, “a very little”. “What is your name, please?” he asks politely. I tell him and he says: “ I am Lieutenant Anthony March. Consider us your visitors.” I understand that our “Beautiful Room” in which only rare guests or important relatives, like Onkel Felix, were entertained will now house two or three ‘Amis’.

They talk among each other. I understand only a word here and there. Anthony again turns to me: “Egbert, is your mother a good cook?” he asks. “The very best” I answer. “Good !” Anthony smiles: “Ask her if she would like to cook for us. We will supply the groceries. But she must be a good cook.”
“What are groceries?” I ask Anthony. He explains painstakingly.
I finally tell my mother that they want her to cook for them. She thinks it’s a great idea. She hasn’t really “cooked” in a long time. But she knows how to make cabbage and potatoes 365 different ways.
She loves to cook, and she will be able to do it with real butter, real eggs, fresh meats. She will use some American but mostly Austrian spices.

This is obviously a smashing success. Within a few days, the five who eat here, become eight and sometimes ten.
Among the American Officer Corp, my mother becomes famous.
And I become the semi-official interpreter.

My mother, my sisters and I always eat before our “visitors.” In spite of my urging, and ‘though we are often hungry, mother refuses to use any of “Their Groceries” to feed us. Until one day, Anthony comes early and sees what we eat.
Anthony (by now we call him Tony) calls a meeting. It is their unanimous decision, that the Reitter family henceforth shall eat the same as the “visitors”. This, I have no doubt, is the beginning of my love of everything “American”.

Months later, the Black Cat division is transferred to Gmunden, in those days a three hour car ride from Braunau.

We hate to loose our “visitors” of whom we have truly grown very fond. Two weeks later, Tony is heard by our neighbour, at three o’clock in the morning, calling from the narrow street below:

“Mamma Reitter, Mamma Reitter”
He brought a huge box of “Groceries” and the Reitter family had to get up and have bacon and eggs and milk with “Tony” at 3 o’clock in the morning.
We did not mind at all.

For the next two weeks we lived really well.


*********************







                                                       ************


This is not exactly "fly fishing"


Some day in the middle of May.

“Of course, it’ll work” Hermann says. ”The under water concussion bursts their bladder and they float to the top. Easy pickin’s”. I am still not convinced, but I yield to my older and more experienced friend. We take only two hand grenades, a short cut of fuse and two ignition caps. We forget the crimping pliers.
When we get to the steeply rising “Slate walls” bordering a still side arm of the river Inn, we find a spot from which we can hurl the grenade and have relatively easy access down to the water where we expect to retrieve a harvest of carp and other fish.
We cut the fuse in half and jam it with two thin twigs into the ignition cap. This cap, in turn, gets inserted into the ‘pot’ and also securely wedged with slightly thicker twigs. To properly ignite the fuse, you must hold the match against the end of the fuse and quickly rip the striker over the match, so that the fuse is exposed to the hottest moment of the igniting match. The expulsion of a thin streak of blue smoke shows us that the fuse has caught. Nervously Hermann hurls this make shift hand grenade down the slate wall into the water. We wait. Nothing happens.
We wait some more in vain.
“Maybe the fuse slipped from the cap” I volunteer. “Yeah, or maybe the cap slipped from the pot.” Hermann is clearly nervous and upset. “We simply must do this more carefully” he says.

“We were sloppy and sloppy people get hurt.” We take great care in the preparation of the second grenade. We test how well the fuse is lodged in the ignition cap and how securely the ignition cap is in the ‘pot’. We light the fuse. Hermann throws it in a wide arc into the water below. A second after it hits the surface a water column rises. We hear a muffled thud. We rush like madmen down to the water.
Just as we get there the first fish float to the top, belly-up. We ignore the small fry and harvest four good sized carp. Hermann doesn’t want any, so I take all four home with me.

What a feast we have that evening. Even the Americans enjoy my mother’s carp. They ask where this wonderful tasting fish comes from.
My mother smiles enigmatically:

Mein Sohn ist ein guter Fischermann”.

In truth, she has no idea how we got this fish. If she knew, she’d have a heart attack.

From that day on we ever only take one ‘pot’. We never forget the crimping pliers. We wrap the ignition cap in old handkerchiefs or other rags and tie it in place with string. Most important of all: We take a sturdy willow branch with a string tied to its end and a sewing needle, bent in the heat of a candle into a hook. Equipped this way nobody could ask: How did you catch this beautiful carp?

We become the most successful fishermen in Braunau, but, inevitably, we run out of hand grenades.

*********************





These Pine Apples are not for eating

Pineapples at the end of June


What we actually go for are K- rations. Those wonderful packages of wonderful food, which the Americans treat with such nonchalance. 
What we most often harvest, however, are cartons of cigarettes: Lucky Strike, Old Gold, Chesterfields, Pall Mall. Ten packages of twenty cigs each, in a carton, called a “Stange” or Pole. Our trips to the farmers of the Innviertel really get successful. It’s incredible how much food you can get for a “Stange” of 200 cigarettes. We hit the farms in accordance with the farmer’s preference. Today we have Lucky Strikes. We know from whom we can get the most food in return. We develop a veritable Black Market in Cigarettes, Eatables and Silverware. 
It is comical: Less than a year ago or so, we brought them our Silverware for their food. Today we bring them cigarettes for, in some cases, the same silverware and food. There is a seemingly never ending demand for cigarettes.

It is a dark and stormy night;. No, I’m just kidding. It is just dark.

Hermann, his friend from high school Helmut and I meet at the Fountain just in front of our house: Stadtplatz 22.
We are dressed in black track suits and black slip-on, thin soled running shoes. There is still a strict curfew in place.
Kurt lives with his mother in one room at the Gasthaus Gans and cannot get away.

It is about 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning. The main square is jammed, as always, with military vehicles. Jeeps, trucks, and still the occasional light armoured car, parked side by side with just enough space to open doors to get in or out.

We have learnt where the Americans usually keep their cigarettes. We split up, so as not to present too large a target. Silently I move from truck to jeep to truck. The most dangerous moment comes when you open or close the door. It makes a clicking sound. 
I can feel my rapid heart beat in my neck and I have to wipe my sweaty hands along my pants. I prefer the open jeep, where I can just reach in, grab a carton, sometimes from the open shelve underneath the dash board, sometimes just lying on the seat, and move on. (by now we ignore K rations,) 
There is a holstered pistol. I ignore it, grab this night’s fourth carton of cigarettes and slip down the Fischergasse and in a round about way, home.
The front door is locked. In my track suit’s breast pocket I carry the key. Up the two flights of stairs and back to bed. Cigarettes are stored underneath my bed, where the hand grenades used to be. The whole excursion took less than an hour, and I am very pleased with myself.

The Nussgarten, or, as we call the place when we speak to our many American friends, the Nutgarden, was a Beer garden, much beloved by a certain group of Buergers during the summer time. Four walnut trees give plenty of shade to seven or eight wooden tables with six chairs each, Situated right atop the city walls, it affords a lovely view over the confluence of the Inn and the Enknach rivers and the wooded area running along up-river for miles and miles.

On one side a small kitchen in which Goulash, Sausages and Sauerkraut and Sandwiches are prepared.

The beer barrels are lowered from the building on street level above via an interesting contraption of pulleys ending in four clamps which grab the barrel and allow it to be lowered through a hole in the ceiling, right into the kitchen.
As always after such a raid, (we call it a “buying trip”) we meet at about 9 o’clock in the morning in the Nussgarten to compare success and plan the next trip to the farms.

Helmut “bought” five cartons, I just four. Hermann, sitting on the wall, his legs dangling over the side (for a bleeder he takes real chances) has a broad grin on his face. “ I got none. Not a single cigarette.” He sounds almost proud. “I got something much better.” We don’t ask. We just look at him. We know he’ll tell us. He leans forward and although at this time in the morning we are alone in the Nussgarten, he whispers: “I got six pine apples.”

We are totally stunned.
“What in hell are we going to do with pine apples?” I ask Hermann .
Helmut just looks uncomprehendingly.

I don’t much like it when Hermann, just because he is 4 years older than I am, adopts a superior attitude.
Although I must admit that at almost 17 he knows a good deal more than I do. And in any event, he is my best friend. He is my “blood brother”. But that’s another story.

I repeat my question: “What in hell will we do with pine apples? I have never eaten any. I don’t even know if I’d like them.”

Hermann smiles: “These are not for eating” he says. “ Pine apples is what the Americans call them, because they look like small pine apples”. He pauses:

“These pine apples are hand grenades.”


*******************


at the very right hand edge of this picture there is a tower like structure and right next to it a flag. This is the "Nussgarten".
If, as I alway tell you, you click on this picture, you will enlarge it and you will see what I am talking about.

                                      ******************

A very close call

At the wall of slate.

Neither Kurt nor Helmut can make it that day. So Hermann and I go up to the “Schlierwand”, the wall of slate. We have most successfully fished up there before, and now we have “pine apples”, American hand grenades and we can fish again.
The wall of slate rises about 5 to 7 meters above the water level and we take a position at the lowest point. Hermann brought only one of the famed pine apples. For the first time I see an American hand grenade. It is impressive in its neatness. About the size of a good sized potato, it fits comfortably into your hand, and can be hurled much like a rock. Hermann hands it to me. It’s surprisingly heavy. On one side of the ribbed exterior an L-shaped clasp is held by a ring through a cotter pin. I hold the grenade in my left hand and I pull the ring . Now I can lift the clasp. A black button which was held down by the clasp springs up and I seem to hear a hissing sound. I am so petrified, I drop the grenade in front of us. At the same moment Hermann kicks it with his shoe.
As if in slow motion the grenade spins side ways, rolls toward the wall and disappears over the lip. Hermann and I hit the ground and cover our heads.

The grenade is now in free fall, out of our sight. It does not hit the water. It blows half way down. I remember thinking that it’s not as loud as the German potato masher.

Still lying on the ground, we look at each other and we become instantly aware that we were mighty close to a belly full of shrapnel and likely death. I begin to shake all over my body. I cannot talk.
Hermann sits up and reaches over to help me into a sitting position. I can feel that he too is shaking.
We sit for a while, just looking at each other.
Then Hermann begins to laugh. I chime in and like two idiots we sit there and laugh. Finally I say: “That was no nine seconds.” I refer to the delay of the German hand grenade. Hermann is still laughing.. Finally we get up and walk home. We don’t talk too much on the way.

Days later, in a casual conversation with one of our American friends, we find out that pine-apples have a three and a half second delay. You hold it in your throwing hand with the ring protruding through your fingers. You pull the ring and, still holding the clasp in place, you throw the damned thing.

The clasp falls off as the grenade leaves your hand, and three seconds later it explodes.

Now you tell me.

*******************


The Wall of Slate.


Richard Keegan and other friends


Richard Keegan and other friends.


“You have hives” he says “and you carry your right arm as if it were hurt”
“What is hives?” I ask. Every day I hear new words.
He points to the right side of my neck. “These are hives” he repeats. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
“I fell from a horse and hurt my shoulder” I say. “But our doctor thinks I just hurt it a little, and it’ll go away”
He examines my hives again. Then he asks: “May I touch your shoulder?”
“Who are you?” I ask. Just a little suspicious.
“My name is Richard Keegan, and I am a medical specialist”
There is another new phrase: Medical specialist. “You are a Doctor?” I ask.
“Not quite” he replies. “But almost. I am similar to a doctor and I would like to look at your shoulder.”
He seems alright so I say: “OK but it hurts, so please touch carefully”
He is in uniform and carries the insignia of a lieutenant. He probes my shoulder. He pushes a little, then he pulls a little.
Then he says: “You have a dislocated shoulder. That’s why you have hives and that’s why you have pain.”
“Can you fix it?” I ask.
“Yes, I can, but I need two of my friends.”
We walk over to the Café Post, which is now a recreational area for the American troops, along with the Café Graf. He asks an MP at the entrance: “Have you seen Hank and Bobby?”


                     The former "Cafe Post" has become a favourite hang out for American soldiers.


“Yeah” says the MP who must be about 2 meters tall, “they’re inside. They just got here.”
Richard bids me to wait in the hall way. He is back in a minute, followed by two other soldiers. He points to them in turn: “This is Hank, and that’s Bob.” He says and asks: “What’s your name?” I tell him.
“That’s an unusual name” he says.
His two helpers have obviously done this before. They hold me, one around my chest, the other around my hips.
Richard tests my shoulder again.
“This is going to hurt a little” he says. In my mind I call him Dr.Keegan.
He takes my right arm; just above my elbow and just below my right shoulder. He yanks and twists a little and shoves a bit. For an instant it hurts like hell. I hold my right arm at the wrist with my left.
We walk to a red cross truck and Richard gets a green coloured cloth, which he folds into a sling. He fastens it atop my left shoulder.
My arm is at a right angle at the elbow. The sling covers my elbow and my hand, and diagonally rises from the tip of my fingers to my shoulder.

I am telling you this in such detail, so that you can understand how much space there was inside this sling, which Richard fills up with chocolate bars, chewing gum, Candies wrapped in silver and gold paper and more chocolate bars.
I could have opened a Konditorei.
“Come back tomorrow” he says. “I will look at your shoulder once more then.”

Richard Keegan and I became good friends. I gave him my Hitler Youth knife with the diamond shaped insert and the Swastika in the middle and on the blade it said: “Blut und Ehre”. He thought it was too valuable, but I insisted.

Some months later he was transferred to the Japanese theatre of war. I never heard from him again. He had given me his home address, so I wrote to his parents. But I never heard from them either.


***********