The End is the Beginning -Part -8-

 

What’s happening in the "Nussgarten?"                                                                                                                                

The Nussgarten has become the place to be. Hermann and I hang around there a lot. The Americans, who have unofficially declared this as one of their recreation areas, accept us readily.  Hermann and I speak English, of sorts.  Believe me, there are days when I speak more English than German. Granted, it’s 2 1/2 years of “school English” and my vocabulary leaves something to be desired, but it grows rapidly day by day. I imitate the Americans: I no longer say: I must…it’s now: I gotta. (With the ‘o’ pronounced wide open, almost like an ‘a’ ). No self-respecting, swaggering Austrian 13 year old would say: “I am not” it is now “I ain’t”. “I have not” must be changed to “I ain’t got no…”

Except when I speak with Richard Keegan. He corrects me when I use, what he calls: Bad English. He tries to explain to me how the way we speak tells the listener who we are. He particularly hates double negatives. He talks for long periods of time to us. He talks of God and Prophets. I don’t understand half of it. Some of the other GIs laugh and tell us: “Don’t listen to him. He’s one hell of a good Medic in spite of being a Mormon.” They laugh uproariously. There is another new concept: A Mormon.

After a while he gives up, but Richard Keegan and I remain good friends.

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. (He was one hell of 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 ‘pineapple’ 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.

The "Nutgarden" is atop this wall, with the yellow door leading to a staircase ascending to the garden.

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