Pineapples at the end of June
What we actually go
for are K- rations: Those wonderful packages of wonderful food, which the
Americans treat with such nonchalance. What we most often harvest, however, are
cartons of cigarettes: Lucky Strike, Old Gold, Chesterfields, and Pall Mall.
Ten packages of twenty cigs each, in a carton, called a “Stange” or Pole. Our
trips to the farmers of the Innviertel really get successful. It’s incredible
how much food you can get for a “Stange” of 200 cigarettes. We hit the farms in
accordance with the farmer’s preference. Today we have Lucky Strikes. We know
from whom we can get the most food in return.
We develop a veritable Black Market in Cigarettes, Eatables and
Silverware. It is comical: Less than a year ago or so, we brought them our
Silverware for their food. Today we bring them cigarettes for, in some cases,
the same silverware and food. There is a seemingly never ending demand for
cigarettes.
It is a dark and
stormy night; No, I’m just kidding. It is just dark.
Hermann, his
friend from high school Helmut and I meet at the Fountain just in front of our
house: Stadtplatz 22.
We are dressed in
black track suits and black slip-on, thin soled running shoes. There is still a
strict curfew in place.
Kurt lives with
his mother in one room at the Gasthaus Gans and cannot get away.
It is about 2 or 3
o’clock in the morning. The main square is jammed, as always, with military
vehicles. Jeeps, trucks, and still the occasional light armoured car, parked
side by side with just enough space to open doors to get in or out.
We have learnt
where the Americans usually keep their cigarettes. We split up, so as not to
present too large a target. Silently I move from truck to jeep to truck. The
most dangerous moment comes when you open the door. It makes a clicking sound.
I can feel my rapid heartbeat in my neck and I have to wipe my sweaty hands along my pants. I prefer the open jeep,
where I can just reach in, grab a carton, sometimes from the open shelf
underneath the dashboard, sometimes just lying on the seat, and move on. (By
now we ignore K rations,) There is a
holstered pistol. I ignore it, grab this night’s fourth carton of cigarettes
and slip down the Fischergasse and in
a roundabout way, home.
The front door is
locked. In my track suit’s breast pocket I carry the key. Up the two flights of
stairs and back to bed. Cigarettes are stored underneath my bed, where the hand
grenades used to be. The whole excursion took less than an hour, and I am very
pleased with myself.
The Nussgarten, or, as we call the place
when we speak to our many American friends, the Nutgarden, used to be a Beer
garden, much beloved by a certain group of Buergers
during the summer time. Two walnut trees
give plenty of shade to seven or eight wooden tables with six chairs each,
Situated right atop the city walls, it affords a lovely view over the
confluence of the Inn and the Enknach rivers and the wooded area running
along up-river for miles and miles.
On one side a
small kitchen in which Goulash, Sausages and Sauerkraut and Sandwiches are
prepared.
The beer barrels are lowered from the building on street level above via an interesting contraption of pulleys ending in four clamps which grab the barrel and allow it to be lowered through a hole in the ceiling, right into the kitchen.
The beer barrels are lowered from the building on street level above via an interesting contraption of pulleys ending in four clamps which grab the barrel and allow it to be lowered through a hole in the ceiling, right into the kitchen.
As always after
such a raid, (we call it a “buying trip”) we meet at about 9 o’clock in the
morning in the Nussgarten to compare success and plan the next trip to the
farms.
Helmut “bought”
five cartons, I just four. Hermann, sitting on the wall, his legs dangling over
the side (for a bleeder he takes real chances) has a broad grin on his face. “I
got none. Not a single cigarette.” He sounds almost proud. “I got something
much better.” We don’t ask. We just look
at him. We know he’ll tell us. He leans forward and although at this time in
the morning we are alone in the Nussgarten, he whispers: “I got six pineapples.”
We are totally
stunned.
“What in hell are
we going to do with pineapples?” I ask Hermann.
Helmut just looks
uncomprehendingly.
I don’t much like
it when Hermann, just because he is nearly 4 years older than I am, adopts a superior attitude.
Although I must
admit that at almost 17 he knows a good deal more than I do. And in any event,
he is my best friend. He is my “blood brother”. But that’s another story.
I repeat my
question: “What in hell will we do with pineapples? I have never eaten any. I
don’t even know if I’d like them.”
Hermann smiles:
“These are not for eating” he says. “Pineapples" is what the Americans call
them, because they look like small pineapples”. He pauses:
“These pineapples
are hand grenades.”
******************
No comments:
Post a Comment