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 sidewalk. 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 anymore. 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 pineapples.”
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 pineapples, 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 awhile 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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