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.

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

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.

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

The Trial and the Verdict

Go Fishing

The next morning I am back at Hermann’s house. There is much coming and going. There is much excitement. I stay out of the way. I am there so often, that my presence disturbs no one. Finally an American Officer arrives. I find out later, that he is a Major and a military defence attorney. Hermann’s parents, a local lawyer who is a friend of the family and the major disappear into their parlour. There is nothing to do. I wander away and end up on the Main Square. I meet some of my American friends. In particular Richard Keegan. He is an Army Medic who fixed my dislocated shoulder after I had fallen off a horse, which I should not have stolen in the first place.

Richard knows all about the arrest. He has met Hermann and knows that we are best friends. He tells me that Hermann and Helmut have been charged this morning with “Werewolf Activities”. I have no idea what he is talking about. I’ve never heard the word before. “What’s a Werewolf?” I ask Richard. 
He looks at me and seems to decide to believe me. “Werewolves” he explains, “is an underground organisation of die-hard Nazis, mostly former members of the Hitler Youth, who are determined to carry on fighting a war which is long over.”

I cannot believe what Richard is telling me.

“This is complete nonsense” I tell him. “Hermann was not even a member of the Hitler Youth, because he is a bleeder. A haemophiliac. He was excused from the compulsory membership in the Hitler Youth.

Richard you have to help him”

I plead. Richard smiles: “I’m just a Medic. I am not even a doctor. There is really nothing I can do for your friend. Believe me, they face very serious charges.”

Just how serious became known very quickly throughout the town: The Prosecution is demanding the death penalty for both men. They stand accused of Werewolf Activities and if convicted must be hanged on the main square as a deterrent to all other potential members of this movement.

The Americans provide an experienced defence attorney, the Major I saw at Hermann’s house. During the closed military trial, we are told, he brings out the fact of Hermann’s medical condition, that for this reason he never belonged to any Nazi Organisation. That both his parents spent a short time in jail because they were quite obviously not sympathetic to the Nazi movement.

His father refused to join the NSDAP, the Nazi Party.

The Major must have done a good job defending my two friends. Finally they were convicted of “illegally possessing explosive devices.”

The Verdict: Nine Month Unconditional, Two years Conditional.

So they dragged Hermann and Helmut off to jail, where they spent the next five month. Their early release was due to their good behaviour.

And all they wanted to do was “Go Fishing”

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

The window of Hermann and Helmut's jail cell.

I tied the heel guard of a military boot to the end of a long string. On the other end a package of  tobacco and the gadget required for the manufacture of home made cigarettes, or some of the pilfered American Cigs. Swinging the boot iron one of my friends could catch it at the third or fourth try. Neither Hermann nor Helmut smoked. so they used it to bribe the guards for extra time in the yard.

JAZZ spelled with a Capital "J"

Goodman and Miller in the Café Graf

Music is part of our life. My father played every string instrument extant. He was best on the Cello and the guitar. There is a story, that he and his brother got musical instruments one Christmas. Franz, my father, got a violin and his brother Felix got a guitar. They also were enrolled in lessons. Franz would study his violin, but every chance he got, he grabbed his brother’s guitar and taught himself. Before long he played the violin quite well, but the guitar even better. Much better, they say, than his brother Felix. My mother played the Zither and she sang beautifully. She had a light, silvery voice. When we did the dishes after dinner, Irmgard would wash, I would dry, Inge would sit at the kitchen table and knit fancy table cloths with a huge round knitting needle, mother would do something else, but we all sang. Doing the dishes and singing went hand in hand. Often, the dishes long done, we’d still be singing. We sang excerpts from Operettas, we sang Folksongs, we sang Schubert’s “Trout quintet “

“In einem Baechlein helle, da schoss in froher Eil, die launige Forelle, vorueber wie ein Pfeil. Ich stand an dem Gestade und sah in suesser Ruh des muntern Fischleins Bade im klaren Baechlein zu.”

I still remember the lyrics. More than sixty years later.

The Americans have just come to Braunau. I don’t yet quite understand it, but I will in the future: they bring us

“freedom liberty and bread.”

I am shortly to discover one other thing they bring:

I bum around in the Main Square, the Stadtplatz.

A few houses down from City Hall is Café Graf. As you walk in you come to the sales section. They sell rich home made chocolate torte, delicious pralines, bon bons, juicy fruit cakes. This is what we call a “Konditorei” At the back is a glass door, which is always open. It leads to the actual “Caffehaus” where you sit at a small round marble topped table and can have all the sweets from the Konditorei, together with strong coffee or tea. You may also have Cognac, various liquors, or a glass of good wine.

All this is hearsay. I am too broke for the Konditorei and too young for the Caffehaus. Every time I pass by, I glance in, because I know, someday I’ll sit in the Caffehaus and eat and drink anything I like.

The Americans seem to like the atmosphere of this little place. They take it over as their club. Now I have friends who will take me there. Richard Keegan for one, but several others too. They bring an electric record player and stacks of records.

This is the place where I first hear Benny Goodman play “Sing Sing Sing” with Gene Krupas unbelievable drum solo and Glen Miller’s “In the Mood,” and the “String of Pearls” and “Chattanooga Choo Choo” with the lush Tenor Sax and vocals of Tex Bennecke. Never, ever before have I heard a voice like Billy Holiday’s.

I am certain I have just arrived in musical heaven.

That’s what music must sound like.

I can feel the pulsating rhythm in my whole body.

I not only hear the melodies but remember them at first hearing.

I hear Music with a capital M.

I know that I have been secretly waiting for this Music.

They tell me it’s called Jazz.

My American friends teach me how to pronounce this beautiful word, so it does not sound like a board game.

I hang around there for days and listen to “Stompin’ at the Savoy”, “Down Under Camp Meeting” I fall in love with Louis Armstrong’s silvery trumpet and his gravely voice.

I listen to Harry James play the “Trumpet Blues” and Tommy Dorsey’s rich trombone.

Who ever heard anything better than Louis Armstrong’s 'Hot Five'.?

I learn the meaning of “Dixieland” and on first hearing I understand that they are all playing around the same chord structure. Everybody improvises like crazy and it comes out sounding beautiful.

But not to my mother’s ears. She declares it:

“unmitigated noise”.

“They are not even playing the same tune” she fusses.

My pleading to listen carefully and she would know that this is beautiful music falls on deaf ears, figuratively speaking.

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

The End

Soccer in Bleiburg

Bleiburg SV  vs  F.C. Kühnsdorf 

many close calls

but not many goals

Where's the ball ??

1 : 1

Birds in Africa

Why do vultures have no feathers on head or neck ?

I'll let you think about the answer.

A flock of Maribu Storks have assembled atop the crown of a tree.

The "Hammerkop" is about the size of a small duck,

but builds the largest nest of any bird in Africa.

Not only that, but they also build a new one each year.

That's similar to you building every year a new Villa for your wife and children.

Don't ask me "why"

 

A clutch of "White Faced Ducks" have assembled on the surface of a pond. 

Yes, this is a pond, overgrown with a light purple blooming water plant.

Algonquin's largest denizen - The Moose

A solitary animal, mostly found in Canada, Alaska, Scandinavia and Russia,
the Moose, or as it is called in Eurasia, the Elk,
is a herbivore growing from 1.5 to 2.3 meters at the shoulders, weighing up to 500 to 600 kgs.
The male grows antlers which it sheds yearly, growing  bigger ones next Spring.
The female, somewhat smaller than the male, does not have antlers, and selects a breeding male in accordance to the size of his rack.

Wild skirmishes between competing adult males for the pleasure of the lady's company sometimes develop and the crashing of their antlers can be heard for long distances throughout the bush.

Its favourite food are the roots of water lilies, but it also feeds on any greenery available to it at any time.

A male Moose becomes aggressive particularly in Fall, at rutting period, and only if it feels threatened.

All of the above is well known to any of my Canadian readers and is specifically intended to inform my Austrian friends.

So enough of this learned talk! Let's look at a few pictures:

A very large male. 

I recommend to stay out of his way,

particularly during the rutting season.

This Eightender is busy digging up roots of 

the water Lily and if you drift too close in your canoe

he might consider you a competitor for his afternoon snack

and throw a mock charge.

Moose are good swimmers and have been observed crossing good sized lakes.

This bull is probably the largest I have ever seen.

I estimated his size at least at 2.5 meters at the shoulders

and his bulk would probably tip the scales at the 650 to 700 kilograms.

It is of course possible that I got too close to him and my estimates might be slightly exaggerated due to the shock experienced by
Bertstravels.

Antelopes, Antelopes, Antelopes

If you are a photography fan, then it does not matter how often you go on Safari in Africa, how many pictures you have already taken of this antelope or that one, if another ones shows his or her beautiful face, you simply cannot keep from taking "just another shot... and then another one.... and then just one more.
And when I select "the best of this or that"...  there is always one more which should have made this selection.
Let me show you a few of the better ones.... ( tomorrow I will find one which I then insist should have made the cut...

Oh well, not to worry... have a good look at those:

The corkscrew horns crown this male Greater Kudu 

as he browses the tasty  leaves

of his favourite bush.

One of the smallest of the antelopes,

the Clipp Springer

must think he is a mountain goat

Another male Kudu, visited by two oxpeckers looking for insects.

A male Waterbuck.

There are two theories concerning the white circle around his tail.

Some suggest it is a help for the young to follow his parents through the dense bush,

others insist that it tells a predator: "I've seen you and I'm on my way, therefore, chasing me is of no use to you.

( those same two theories are being put forward about the "White Tailed Dear."

The "Clown of the Steppe"

also known as the "Wildebeest".

In the area of Tanzania, Kenia and surrounding countries

there are about 1.5 Million of them on migration.

We witnessed a heard, which our guide estimated to number at about 10,000 to 15,000

crossing the Mara River on their migration.

a female Kudu, somewhat smaller than her male partner

 and, of course, without the spiral horns.

Here is a male Nyala.

His horns have only one swing in the middle and a small curve at the end, 

as opposed to the Kudu, who has multiple swings.

Another peculiarity of the Nyala: 

It is the only Antelope where the colouration of the male differs substantially from that of the females.

Please note: The male middle to dark grey, the females light brown.

Before this male Impala stepped into the sun light,

he turned around once more to make sure that we posed no threat.

In the Kalahari a small Duiker and a streight horned Oryx

seem to have no problem sharing the same feeding ground.

above and below:

A graceful male Impala.

Our guide made a most fitting comment:

"The Impala", he said, "are the flowers of our Park."

A scimitar horned Sable Antelope.

A group of "Lady Impalas"

ready for modeling school