What's happening in the "Nussgarten" ?

The Nussgarten is a lovely spot. It’s close to our respective homes, its stair case gives us quick access to the river and the wooded area along its bank, called the “Au”.

The Americans have brought a real table tennis table. They have an unlimited supply of table tennis balls and bats.

We no longer have to put balls into hot water, to work out crimps and bends, no more gluing split balls with model air plane glue. If a ball develops any kind of flaw, you toss it: Throw it away. It’s unbelievable.

Hermann is a little late this day. For a while I am alone in the Nussgarten. It’s 9 o’clock in the morning and the Americans don’t usually show up until after lunch. After all, they have a Country to re-build. I know where they stash the balls and bats. I sit on the wall, with my legs dangling on the inside, mind you. Not like Hermann who loves to sit with his legs dangling on the outside. In each hand I hold a table tennis bat and I bat a ball back and forth as fast and as often as I can. Maybe that’s why I later became a pretty good player, making the team of 4, representing Braunau when we played against Altheim, Neukirchen, Mauerkirchen and Mattighofen. I remember my disappointment when the team travelled to Linz ( the Big Time) but I was dropped in favour of Ebner Burschi. (God, he was a good player)

In any event, I sit there batting a ball back and forth. Finally Hermann arrives and we start a game. His mind is not on the game, however. He’s got a ‘pine-apple’ in his pants pocket and he suggests that we should go to the Schlierwand for a little fishing.

”No, it’s too far” I say. “I have to be home for dinner at noon, and I have no excuse not to.

At 11 two Americans arrive earlier than usual. We know them both from earlier days. Bobby Sumner and Hank Neuberg. ( He pronounces his Name Newberg ), are the two who assisted Richard when he popped my shoulder back into its socket. I like them both.

They strip to their grey t-shirts and short pants and we give way at the table. They are very good at this game. I mean: very good. We watch them for a while.

Then Hermann, resting on his elbows, leans over the wall and looks out over the river. I sit sideways, straddling the wall. We talk.

“How long will this last?” he asks. “How long will what last” I ask in return.

“You know” he says. “This life: No school, no work, just hanging around.?”

“I heard” I say, “school will start again in September.”

“I hope so” Hermann says. “My father is talking of ‘private lessons’.” He casually turns to the table tennis playing Americans. He returns to his position, leaning on the wall, looking out. Below is a thin strip of land with a foot path and then the high water Enknach river.

I can’t believe my eyes: In his right hand he holds the pine-apple. He pulls the ring with his left hand and with an almost imperceptible flick of his arm, the grenade goes sailing. It just misses the land, disappears in the water and a second later a column of water rises and the sound of the explosion reaches our ears; loud and clear.

Bobby and Hank jump into their pants, they don’t bother with their jackets, and, side arm at the ready, they hurry down the stairs to the river below.

Hermann casually strolls to the table, picks up a bat and says: “come on, let’s play.”

In those days “cool” meant a certain temperature. Today I would call this “the height of cool”.

Minutes later the two come back. Still shaking their heads. Hank asks me: “You were looking down there. Did you see any one?”

“No” I answer innocently, “we were watching you, next thing I hear is boom.”

“Ah shit” says Hank. “Let’s forget it. Come on, let’s play a foursome.”

I pair with Hank, Hermann with Bobby. Each side has a good player and a mediocre one.

Hermann, in my eyes, is the best player of them all.

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Blueberries and Pine Cones

“Absolutely No!” my mother says. Usually when she says No she means No. But when she adds “Absolutely” then it is clear that arguments of any nature are futile. It is 6 o’clock in the evening and my mother just informed me that she and I will go into the woods behind our town, to pick blueberries and collect pine cones. It’s the height of blueberry season and why not fetch a sack of pine cones while we are out there? “ No”, she repeats, “you cannot go hiking with Hermann tomorrow. I need you to pick berries and cones”

I drop by Hermann’s house. We sit on the ground level window sill. He is inside, I’m outside on the side walk. In the room behind the open window four knitting machines are clattering, making an infernal noise. So it seems to me. It never bothers Hermann. When you talk about the noise, he asks: “What noise?” But his grin tells you that he too can hear it. It just doesn’t bother him any more. He grew up with it in his ears and his father always told him that this noise is their bread and butter.

“ I can’t go tomorrow. I have to go blueberry picking.” I don’t tell him about the pine cones. I am ashamed that we need them to cook a quick meal. “That’s a bummer” Hermann says. “We’ll be using the last two pine apples.”

We got over our fright from our first attempt and, now knowing how to use them, we marched through the town with our fishing rod over our shoulder and an American hand grenade in a pants pocket.

Tomorrow will be a double header. We planned to blow them both in quick succession and come home with a mighty crop of fish.

“That’s a real bummer” Hermann repeats himself. “I’ll have to see if I can get Helmut to come along.” “Can’t you wait a day or so?” I ask him. “No,” he says, “if we don’t do it tomorrow, I can’t do it for another two or three days. My father is keeping me busy in the store.” After a minute he adds: “Frankly I am getting nervous. I’d like to get rid of them.” I understand completely. “What are we going to do with the Sten gun in the attic?” I ask. Hermann looks a little worried: “Somehow, we gotta get rid of it. What a dumb thing to do, to take this gun.” He is not beyond self criticism. “Oh, well” I try to make him feel a little better, “I thought it was a great idea.”

“You would” he smiles, and adds: “drop by here when you come home from the blueberries.”

From early morning till mid afternoon, my mother and I are in the forest. We rode out on my sister’s bicycle. I hate picking blueberries. It’s such tedious, slow work. Mother is very quick. She picks a litre, by the time I have picked a quarter. My back hurts like hell. If hers does, she never says. I switch to collecting pine cones. We brought a gunny sack. I fill it up to the brim and we have to spill some, so we can tie the sack on top.

My mother looks at me and says: “Good job.”

I need no more. Her praise is worth two pine apples, any day. We balance the sack of pine cones over the saddle and the rear carrier, three two litre cans, full of blueberries hang from the handle bars. We walk home, carefully guiding my sister’s bike. We know she’ll examine it for the most minute scratch. Mother is happy. We sing as we walk.

“Ich bin ein froher Wandersmann” She has a good voice. Clear and light. Even the high notes she does not force.

It’s almost 5 o’clock when we get home. I carry the gunny sack and one can of blueberries upstairs. Mother follows with the other three cans. She’ll be putting up blueberries in empty beer bottles all day tomorrow. “They’ll be wonderful come winter” she almost smacks her lips in anticipation.

As a special treat I get a small bowl of blueberries sprinkled with sugar.

As soon as I can I rush to Hermann’s house. I’m anxious to find out how the double header went off. When I get there he is not home. Only his mother is there. Eyes red, crying. Under sobs and hick-ups she tells me that Hermann and Helmut were arrested by American Military Police. “Arrested?” I ask, “what would they be arrested for?”

By bits and pieces I get the story. They were hiking up to the Schlierwand. A nearby farmer had in the past observed two boys and each time, shortly after he saw them, he heard explosions. Sometimes only one, but sometimes two. He notified the Americans. Nobody should set off explosions like that.

A member of the newly formed Braunau Police force, comes to Hermann’s house and informs his parents that their son is in the custody of the Americans.

No, not the local Police, the American Military Police. Hermann’s father is trying to contact the boys. Helmut’s mother is also at the American administrative offices. They’ve been there all day. The arrest happened at 11 o’clock. It is now 6 o’clock in the evening.

The parents have been told they could see their sons after the Americans finished their interrogation. A seven hour interrogation?

It does not sound good.

It hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks. If they were arrested on their way to the Schlierwand, they carried two American hand grenades. And if the Americans search the house, they might find the Sten gun in the attic.

It is 2 o’clock in the morning. I get out of bed and quickly slip into my black gym suit and into my running shoes. My mother and my two sisters are sound asleep. I make my way up into our attic and from there onto the flat part of our roof. The next roof is a steeply gabled roof. I climb it with no difficulties. Up to the top and then carefully down the other side. The next roof starts after a section of tin. As I step on it, it gives off a loud bang. I freeze and wait and listen. There is nothing. I climb the next roof up and down and the next. I am hoping and wishing that the hatch to the attic into Hermann’s house is open.

I still have many roofs to climb. Our house, Stadtplatz 22, is at one end of a city block. I need to reach the last house of this block, but diagonally situated at the other end. I am confronted by a court yard. A fire wall runs from one end of the court yard to the other. I straddle the wall and in a sitting position I work my way across.

The next roof is very easy. It’s flat and there are laundry lines strung from end to end. Some sheets and towels wave in the gentle breeze. Thank God there is good moonlight. It’s not a full moon, but maybe three quarters. Enough that I can see where I step.

A few more steeply gabled roofs and I have reached the roof under which I know an automatic machine pistol and two full magazines lie hidden.

The hatch. The hatch is open just enough to allow good air circulation. And enough for me, lying flat on my stomach to slip my arm through the crack and manoeuvre the steel arm with many holes, out of its holding lug,

Now the heavy hatch rests on my arm, but I can lift it until I can carefully and noiselessly lay it upon the roof. I slip down the hatch. But here it is almost pitch black. There is only what moonlight there is coming through the now open hatch. I stand in the darkness and let my eyes adjust.

I grope to the two steeply angled beams and feel, because I cannot see, the rags in which the gun is wrapped.

I carefully pull this bundle out. I can leave the rags. I sling the gun over my shoulder, the two magazines under my track top. I reach the hatch and easily pull myself through. The magazines give me real trouble. They will not stay under my top and I have to adjust them constantly.

The way back is more troublesome. Now I carry a heavy machine pistol, which has a tendency to slide forward as soon as I bend over. I really hate the fire wall, which again I straddle. It takes me twice as long to return to Stadtplatz 22. Once there I sit a while and rest and think.

The front of number 22 looks out to the Main Square. The back, where our apartment is, looks out over Church Square. My decision is made: I stand on the slanted part of the roof. My left arm hooks around a chimney stack and with my right hand I hurl the machine pistol, followed by the two magazines as far into the Church Square as I can.

They land noisily. I wait a while, but nothing moves.

The town is fast asleep.

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