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Only in July and August, when the sun is high, the
chestnut tree, which stands in the middle of the courtyard of the
‘Kaserne’, the army barracks, gets a few hours of sun light per
day.
It is a stunted, crippled tree and only the best spring
seasons bring a few blossoms.
Blossoms like Christmas trees with all white candles.
Then in autumn gnarled chestnuts, horse chestnuts, mind you, lie
between the cobble stones, the cobble stones pushed upwards by the
stubborn roots. From year to year the tree looks as if it is about to
give up. Wrapped in shadows, most of the time, no sun, little rain ,
no hope, no birds, no songs, no love, no sun, no love, no hope.
Swift clatter of boots criss-cross the courtyard of the
barracks day and night. The barracks built of grey stone, three
stories high, four squat structures at right angles, forming a
perfectly square courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stands the
stunted, crippled chestnut tree, still fighting against all odds,
still breathing, although strangled, still growing, or is it? Still
surviving and still there.
Inside the buildings, for more than fifty years,
recruits have been taught the fundamentals of their trade. Sergeants
and Officers, spit and polish Officers, loud-mouthed drill Sergeants,
suave and gentlemanly Officers, brave Officers, cowardly Officers,
comradely Sergeants, brutal Sergeants, in a frustrating effort to
teach slow-witted farmhands, lazy, goldbricking small-town boys, some
of the dubious virtues, some of the questionable values, they hold so
dear.
When really, all they have to do is open the grimy
windows and tell their recruits: “Look! Look down there. ..in the
middle of the courtyard…see that crummy chestnut tree? That’s a
soldier!”
But not one of them, in all the years, has ever thought
of it. Not one of them has ever opened a grimy window. The textbook
tree just stands there, neither use nor ornament, and still does not
give up from year to sun-starved year.
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Kasernenstrasse leads in a semi-circle around three
sides of the barracks. In summer it is a nice and shady road with
chestnut trees on both sides. Full grown and thick-leaved trees and
in the fall the children come with gunny sacks and four wheel carts
and collect the dark brown chestnuts bursting from the pale green
thorn-studded, prickly skins. The chestnuts have a wide variety of
uses: Propelled from slingshots they are not as deadly as stones and
produce a lovely sound on impact. They can be strung on cord and make
a necklace of any desired length. They can be hollowed out, so that
only the brown, tough, almost wooden skin remains, one small hole
punctured from the side, insert a reed, you have a pipe with which to
smoke the dried-up chestnut leaves. Best of all: A large, shiny,
glistening chestnut can be carried in your trouser pocket and when
the loneliness descends, you can rub it gently between your fingers.
You can pull it out and look at it, and turn it round and round and
look at it and rub it gently with your thumb. Then you can put it
back into your trouser pocket and you can walk home, whistling,
because you know the chestnut in your pocket belongs to you and
no-one knows that you have had it for six weeks and no-one knows it
is a lucky charm. A chestnut, rubbed gently with your fingers, helps
you think and know things.
On the south side of the Kaserne is a small parade
ground. A six foot high wall of brick, joined to the barracks,
surrounds it. At the very top of this wall barbed wire is strung on
iron rods. No-one in, no-one out.
“Military Area” reads the sign and “Keep Out.”
Erich Krueger can get in. Through the front door,
through the dark, round-ceiling, cobblestone-floored, windowless,
dark damp hallway. Right in through the heavy oaken,
black-nail-studded front door. Right in, across the courtyard, now
with the stunted, crippled, sun-impoverished, leave-less, naked
branches hopelessly reaching, chestnut tree.
Climb the big chestnut tree outside the south wall of
the parade ground. Climb it in the summer and hide in the leaves and
watch. Watch the soldiers, dirty green, march up and down; watch the
drill-sergeant open his cavernous mouth; watch his face turn red;
watch him point with his stiff finger and single out one of the
heavily panting recruits; watch the recruit stand stiffly at
attention, chest out, stomach in, chin up, eyes straight forward,
heels together, toes apart forty five degrees; watch the Sergeant
circle the watched recruit; watch him open his mouth and close it;
watch the recruit belly-flop to the ground, scramble up, to the
ground, scramble up, down, up, down, up round and round the parade
ground; watch the sweat mingle with the dirt on his face; watch the
wide open mouth desperately gulping air; watch the sergeant’s
mouth; watch the other recruits grinning without pity; watch the
victim flop to the ground, crumple to the ground, claw feebly into
the ground and watch his legs jerk in reflex, and not get up….no
more….watch no more; close your eyes and see him still…close your
eyes.
But then climb the big chestnut tree outside the south
wall of the parade ground, climb it in summer and hide in the green
leaves and listen:
Listen to the brass band rehearse, as if they needed to
rehearse::
“Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern find’st
du nicht…”
Listen to the wind tear a piece from the melody, a
sombre, sad, complaining melody and play with it, tear the high notes
from the trumpet’s mouth:
“I once had a comrade; you’ll never find a better
one….”
Listen to the second stanza and listen to yourself hum
along, while you hide in the leaves of the summer chestnut tree:
“Eine Kugel kam geflogen…a
bullet came a-flying, meant for you or is it meant for me?”
Listen to the big round drum: tum tum tum tu-tum…
Listen listen listen to the crack drill team rehearsing
the salvos for the big funeral next Saturday; listen to the Sergeant:
“Preeeeeeesent Arms!” Listen to callused hands slap slap slap on
rifle stocks and rifle butts. Watch the rifles in one straight line
pointing southward, right into the foliage of the chestnut tree;
listen to the Sergeant bellow more commands;
Listen to your friend frantically whispering into your
ear: listen to yourself say: “yes, yes, yes…great!”
Watch the grin on your friend’s face and listen to
your own chuckle deep inside of you.
Look straight down into the rifles, don’t move, watch,
listen, watch, listen to the final command, screamed: “Fiiiiire!”
Listen to the salvo split your ear drums; listen to your
friend moan, gruesomely, convincingly moan, loud, long moan; watch
him let go…down to the lowest branch, where he cleverly brakes his
fall, hangs for a moment with one hand, still moaning and then lets
go and still moaning falls to the ground, lands on his feet in a
crouch, moaning quietly now, he looks up, beckons you madly;.. ”come
down, fall down, you promised, you coward…”
Watch the soldiers break rank, run madly toward the exit
door at the far end.
Listen to the Sergeant scream: “Which lame brained
fuckin’ idiot used live ammunition? God dam you stupid bastards!
Blind ammunition I said…
Ambulance…fast…you…private…run…get the
ambulance…get a doctor…move you stupid clot…move!
Listen to the pandemonium…
Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern find’st
du nicht.” …
The band still doesn’t know.
Climb down the chestnut tree in summer; fast, fast,
climb, hurry, watch your friend take off like a rabid along
Kasernenstrasse: jump from the last branch now, below the top of the
wall and out of sight, hit the ground, ever so slightly off balance,
sprain your ankle and feel the pain shoot through your foot, subside;
Run after your friend down Kasernenstrasse, catch up to
your friend, hiding behind the big fat chestnut tree; doubled up with
laughter, laughing, tears streaming from his eyes and you begin to
laugh, helplessly, uproariously laugh.
“Did you see that…Did you? Eh! Did you see me fall?
Did you hear me moan?
“You shoulda seen the Sergeant, turned all white, you
shoulda seen them scramble in every which direction."
“Yes, I saw. I was up there with you.”
Listen to the ambulance scream down Kasernenstrasse;
hide behind the tree in the deep grass in the ditch which runs along
Kasernenstrasse;
Listen to the running foot steps of a flock of soldiers;
suppress your laughter, roll around the ditch, look at each other and
laugh…deep down…your throat and stomach hurting with the
laughter;
Watch the ambulance come back, knowing it is empty,
slowly, the driver scanning both sides of the road, looking for the
victim;
Watch the Sergeant coming back on foot, shaking his
head.
Limp home and when the ankle swells and your mother
solicitously puts cold compresses on it, forget the pain, lie back
and find the chestnut in your pocket, stare up to the ceiling and
gently rub the chestnut between your thumb and fingers.
When your mother asks: “Erich, where did you hurt your
foot?” you mumble something about stepping off a sidewalk and
slip…just like that.
All the while you rub your magic chestnut.
For three more years you rub the magic chestnut.
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