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Front cover photo: Granddad Kurt, post-war in Nürnberg, Germany
No part may be reproduced and/or transmitted in any form without the author´s consent, and subsequently naming the author as the creator.
Front cover photo: Granddad Kurt, post-war in Nürnberg, Germany
"Where's the bloody knife?"
Might as well serve the soles of my shoes if I don't find this effing knife soon I can't believe this mess in here Who the hell needs fish knives anyway Where's that stupid knife
Exasperated, I bang the cluttered drawer shut. "Gran, where do you keep your carving knife?" I shout in the direction of the living room, struggling with last minute preparations for my granddad's 75th birthday supper. "Gran?"
If I shout any louder the neighbours will have me arrested for causing a disturbance Is she going deaf
"What is it you need?" she asks, suddenly appearing at the kitchen door, unconsciously touching her hair styled into a peculiar wind-tunnel fashion and sprayed to safety-helmet stiffness, by my granddad, no doubt.
The murder weapon grandma Is he fussing over his wife's hair because he is half-bold He blames the steel helmet he had to wear in his early twenties I reckon gran will be completely bold soon Roots damaged by hairspray and dye chemicals abuse
She is slightly flushed from ushering my overstyled aunt, her nondescript son Michael and his hawk-eyed wife into the impeccable parlour where, from what I could hear, my mum, who had arrived earlier with us, had introduced them to Michael, my GI boyfriend.
"I need to slice the meat, where's the carving knife? I have rummaged through your knife drawer twice already."
Oh my God she's going to open the drawer pull out the knife and treat me to her voilà look
She makes her way over to one of the overhead kitchen cabinets - whoever would have thought that 'bahamas beige' is a colour anyone in their right mind would choose for their kitchen cabinets or sanitary facilities - and takes out an impressive electrical knife, still in its box.
"I worked at Vogel's Housewares for over 15 years, girl, there's nothing I don't have," she says with a wink and plugs it in, while I lift the beef from its steaming broth. "How come you know how to make 'Tafelspitz'?" she goes on to ask, and adds salt to the consommé.
What Have you been nicking stuff from work It's not like it's Boeuf Bourguignon What do you mean how come
"I don't, to be honest. Do you remember Coen, my friend from Café Ruhestörung?" I ask her.
Did they ever meet She would probably get him mixed up anyway
"The Dutch cutie?" she asks after a moment's hesitation.
Must have made an impression for her to remember where he is from
"I didn't know you were still in touch. And he knows how to cook?" she continues, incredulous.
And why not Because he's a Boy Dutch Good-looking Come on gran This is the 90s
"Can't say he's ever cooked for me, but I remembered that his mum has a first edition 'Sacher Kochbuch' from when they were living near Vienna in the mid seventies, so I asked him to get his mother to fax me some recipes for inspiration."
Wonder what that house was like Probably had their private ski slope in the back garden
"I should take the rolls out of the oven, if I were you. Let your grandfather grate the apple for the cream dip, he seems to enjoy doing that," she says, arranging the thinly sliced meat on her prized Villeroy und Boch 'Wildrose' cake platter and scattering chopped chives and coarse sea salt over the slices before covering them with its glass dome to keep them warm, while I cautiously strain the soup into the tureen, already holding the Frittaten - rolled up, thinly sliced pancakes. "I will take the broth in now, you can bring in the meat platter and the 'Birzel'. I'll send Elke to fetch the cucumber salad and the chives sauce. Did you remember to bring some extra sour cream?"
Who put you in charge
"Certainly did. It's in a dish next to the gravy boat, in the fridge. I even managed to talk my neighbour Ruza into letting me have a bottle of her killer 'Sliwowitz'," I call after her.
Next time the Yugoslavs invite me in for a convivial evening of 'Sarma and Šljivovica'* I need to take aspirin before we get started They drink it like water
My granddad walks in just as I am taking the 'Birzel' - soft dinner rolls - out of the oven, spots the horseradish dip in its dish, goes to one of the drawers to get the grater, and immediately sets to work with the quarters of peeled apple, saying cheerfully: "You have warmed the cockles of my Sudeten-German heart with this supper, I can see you you have put a lot of thought into it.“
How set in their ways they are She knew he would do that He has always liked his soup
My cousin's wife comes in, wordlessly fetches the gravy boat from the fridge, takes the salad bowl set on the eggshell coloured resopal worktop, and without even so much as a glance in my direction, heads straight back to her Michael's side.
Who rained on your parade Your Michael doesn't compare to my Michael Is that it
"Wait till dessert. There will be a treat with your coffee." I address my granddad, who rolls his eyes as the door closes with a medium bang and turns back to me.
I hope he still has his lighter I didn't bring one Shit
"You haven't," he replies, beaming with anticipation like a little boy. "Your gran doesn't even let me smoke anymore, you know, but today's a special day, I might get away with it, you never know."
You bet on it It's probably what's holding you together Mental note Remember not to be like my grandmother when I'm old.
* stuffed cabbage leaves and damson-plum brandy
Might as well serve the soles of my shoes if I don't find this effing knife soon I can't believe this mess in here Who the hell needs fish knives anyway Where's that stupid knife
Exasperated, I bang the cluttered drawer shut. "Gran, where do you keep your carving knife?" I shout in the direction of the living room, struggling with last minute preparations for my granddad's 75th birthday supper. "Gran?"
If I shout any louder the neighbours will have me arrested for causing a disturbance Is she going deaf
"What is it you need?" she asks, suddenly appearing at the kitchen door, unconsciously touching her hair styled into a peculiar wind-tunnel fashion and sprayed to safety-helmet stiffness, by my granddad, no doubt.
The murder weapon grandma Is he fussing over his wife's hair because he is half-bold He blames the steel helmet he had to wear in his early twenties I reckon gran will be completely bold soon Roots damaged by hairspray and dye chemicals abuse
She is slightly flushed from ushering my overstyled aunt, her nondescript son Michael and his hawk-eyed wife into the impeccable parlour where, from what I could hear, my mum, who had arrived earlier with us, had introduced them to Michael, my GI boyfriend.
"I need to slice the meat, where's the carving knife? I have rummaged through your knife drawer twice already."
Oh my God she's going to open the drawer pull out the knife and treat me to her voilà look
She makes her way over to one of the overhead kitchen cabinets - whoever would have thought that 'bahamas beige' is a colour anyone in their right mind would choose for their kitchen cabinets or sanitary facilities - and takes out an impressive electrical knife, still in its box.
"I worked at Vogel's Housewares for over 15 years, girl, there's nothing I don't have," she says with a wink and plugs it in, while I lift the beef from its steaming broth. "How come you know how to make 'Tafelspitz'?" she goes on to ask, and adds salt to the consommé.
What Have you been nicking stuff from work It's not like it's Boeuf Bourguignon What do you mean how come
"I don't, to be honest. Do you remember Coen, my friend from Café Ruhestörung?" I ask her.
Did they ever meet She would probably get him mixed up anyway
"The Dutch cutie?" she asks after a moment's hesitation.
Must have made an impression for her to remember where he is from
"I didn't know you were still in touch. And he knows how to cook?" she continues, incredulous.
And why not Because he's a Boy Dutch Good-looking Come on gran This is the 90s
"Can't say he's ever cooked for me, but I remembered that his mum has a first edition 'Sacher Kochbuch' from when they were living near Vienna in the mid seventies, so I asked him to get his mother to fax me some recipes for inspiration."
Wonder what that house was like Probably had their private ski slope in the back garden
"I should take the rolls out of the oven, if I were you. Let your grandfather grate the apple for the cream dip, he seems to enjoy doing that," she says, arranging the thinly sliced meat on her prized Villeroy und Boch 'Wildrose' cake platter and scattering chopped chives and coarse sea salt over the slices before covering them with its glass dome to keep them warm, while I cautiously strain the soup into the tureen, already holding the Frittaten - rolled up, thinly sliced pancakes. "I will take the broth in now, you can bring in the meat platter and the 'Birzel'. I'll send Elke to fetch the cucumber salad and the chives sauce. Did you remember to bring some extra sour cream?"
Who put you in charge
"Certainly did. It's in a dish next to the gravy boat, in the fridge. I even managed to talk my neighbour Ruza into letting me have a bottle of her killer 'Sliwowitz'," I call after her.
Next time the Yugoslavs invite me in for a convivial evening of 'Sarma and Šljivovica'* I need to take aspirin before we get started They drink it like water
My granddad walks in just as I am taking the 'Birzel' - soft dinner rolls - out of the oven, spots the horseradish dip in its dish, goes to one of the drawers to get the grater, and immediately sets to work with the quarters of peeled apple, saying cheerfully: "You have warmed the cockles of my Sudeten-German heart with this supper, I can see you you have put a lot of thought into it.“
How set in their ways they are She knew he would do that He has always liked his soup
My cousin's wife comes in, wordlessly fetches the gravy boat from the fridge, takes the salad bowl set on the eggshell coloured resopal worktop, and without even so much as a glance in my direction, heads straight back to her Michael's side.
Who rained on your parade Your Michael doesn't compare to my Michael Is that it
"Wait till dessert. There will be a treat with your coffee." I address my granddad, who rolls his eyes as the door closes with a medium bang and turns back to me.
I hope he still has his lighter I didn't bring one Shit
"You haven't," he replies, beaming with anticipation like a little boy. "Your gran doesn't even let me smoke anymore, you know, but today's a special day, I might get away with it, you never know."
You bet on it It's probably what's holding you together Mental note Remember not to be like my grandmother when I'm old.
* stuffed cabbage leaves and damson-plum brandy
***
We ate our old-fashioned meal a little awkwardly and with very little elbow room at their 70's smoked-glass dining table, designed to sit 6 but set for 8 in a corner of their living-room dedicated as dining area, complete with a highboard for storing the porcelain and cutlery, and a glass cabinet holding trinkets.
Right now, my granddad is well into his second damson brandy and relishing his third JPS Green Filter, and the rest of the family - except for tight-lipped Elke - is still chuckling about my granddad having called my cousin, who is a year older than me, a milksop ('smetabart', he had said) after having finished off the salad dressing drinking directly from the bowl and unwittingly sporting a cream-stained upper lip. His wife, apparently used to this sort of thing - they had a 3-year old - had unceremoniously wiped his moustache with her napkin, to his acute discomfort.
Aunt Renate, visibly by a different father as my mum yet born in Sudetenland like my granddad – at 17, my gran had avoided the devastating bombings of Nürnberg by fleeing to Freudenthal where her first husband had hailed from, only to have to make the reverse trek by foot minus a husband (shot in September 1944 by a sniper in Belgium, at 19 years of age), plus an infant (born in March of the same year) - comes back from the kitchen singing a ridiculous Peter Alexander song from the year dot praising 'Powidltatschkerln', blows a strand of hair dyed royal blue out of her eye and plonks the glass pot with freshly brewed coffee and a huge platter of the fragrant flummery - fried potato turnovers with a delicious plum filling typical of Bohemia - on the table.
Michael the Milksop He has fathered a child Does that make my cousin a man In his case I doubt it Shut up I never liked him His wife's worse Moose-face Elke Get a grip
"I used to help my mother whenever she made them for dessert", my granddad suddenly says, wistfully looking at his plate, "it was my job to coat them with the spiced breadcrumbs. One day I mistook nutmeg for cinnamon, and everybody liked them so much that from then on my mum used a mixture of both," he goes on to say, seemingly pleased with himself for remembering.
You can actually murder someone with nutmeg Doubt it Who wouldn't notice the overdosing Cinnamon's probably harmful too
"My father actually trained as a baker and confectioner when he was in his teens," my mum, dabbing at her mouth with a dark green paper napkin, informs Mike sitting next to her, perched on his chair
rather like a startled sparling.
As far as I can remember, he's never once made me a cake Never baked a loaf of bread How strange I've only ever known him to roast the goose on Christmas Day Why is that.
"You could have told me this before," I chide my grandfather, "you're always going on about them, but we've never actually had them. I doubt great grandmother loosened the damson plums with 'Sliwowitz', though."
How is it actually pronounced Probably not like the German 'Witz' as in joke I suppose the Czechs use a different ending Maybe Vice Pronounced Vitse
"Not while his father was still around, I should imagine," snorts grandmother Lotte, firmly putting the cork back into the brandy bottle and moving the JPS packet out of my granddad's reach.
Oh really gran Party pooper I could do with another one so as to drown out that stupid Powidldatschgerln song Would she take away the packet if I lit one up Menthol Probably poisonous
"In the final stages of his Tuberculosis, she had to hide everything from him, or he would have traded in her wedding ring, he was drowning himself in alcohol and had gambled away a fortune, including my mother's house, which she had to sign over to his creditors shortly before her demise. That's why Irma and I ended up at the local orphanage two years later, after my mother's death. Three of my siblings already dead, my sister Mimi dying of TBC and the remaining three siblings destitute, all because of his insalubrious habits," he rants, angrily sloshing the remainder of his coffee, taken black with 2 sugars, around in its cup. "Of course," he continues, "neither of our respectable uncles and aunts deigned to take us in, although I was only ten, Irma twelve, and Hermann had just been accepted into the postal service." He stiffly gets up and walks, a little unsteadily, over to the bookshelf to pull out his album.
Some family Drunks gamblers and bloody misers on granddad's side and blasted beauty queens escorts ha and surprise drunks on gran's side Surprised I turned out ordinary Wouldn't go as far as to say normal
"Here we go," my mum says conversationally to Mike, "do me a favour: don't mention the war."
Yeah right Bloody Basil My cousin looks a bit like him Bet he pulls on his wellies and does the goose step at home
"Did I ever tell you that my brother Hermann died in a field hospital because the medics thought he was feigning," Granddad says, slowly making his way back to his seat of honour at the head of the table.
What the heck I doubt it's just a cracked rib Are you the Doctor or me Get your arse off the gurney and walk Butchers
"You started it," my gran tells off my mum.
That was my line Blast it She has the accent down a treat
"No, I haven't, you have - I wasn't even born until four years after," she bickers back.
Touché Nice one mum
"Can we all agree on that deranged Austrian having started it, and get back to our puds," I throw in, peeved. "I've been waiting for the opportunity to say this ever since I watched the 'The Germans' episode of 'Fawlty Towers'," I quietly tell Mike, "and now my gran has unwittingly beaten me to it..."
Do they even watch British Comedy over there or is it all Beavis and Butthead
"¿Qué?" he says, winking at me.
Bloody hell What a catch
I smile back.
Heartthrob NOOO don't pursue that line of thought Naughty
Granddad, who has watched our repartee without actually knowing what has been said, waggles his ears at me. Seizing the opportunity to show off his photos to an unsuspecting newcomer, he pushes the rather thin album towards my boyfriend and points at a photo of himself and a friend on a motorbike.
First time I see this How old is he in the photo Seventeen going on thirty
"This is me, in the mid thirties, in my hometown Zwittau, which is now a part of Czechoslovakia, but then, of course, there were mostly Germans living there." He goes on to point out his family. "This is my brother Hermann, he was quite a bit older than me. As I said earlier, he died during the war, of a perforated intestine. This is my mother, Rosina, called 'Sini', with my father, Robert. He was a master tailor, with his own shop and seven apprentices, a very strict man. This is a photo of my father's family. See this sister? She married a Schindler. Adolfine Schindler. Horrible name for a girl," he smirks, in expectation of an incredulous reaction from my man.
Adolfine It is a horrible name
"You are related to the Schindler?" Mike promptly asks.
Are these G.I.s actually more learned than we give them credit for Who knows who Schindler was Who has ever heard of this Righteous before the Nations stuff
"Speaking of which," my cousin cuts in. "I bought you tickets at the box office, as soon as 'Schindler's List' premiers in Germany, you and gran can go and watch the movie, it's supposed to be monumental."
Ah well Could be an explanation
"I wonder," my grandfather replies, thoughtfully pocketing the cinema tickets, "if they will make mention of anything before the war, or even show my hometown," he addresses my boyfriend. "Probably not. He was a bit of a go getter, Oskar was - Hermann was thick with him, they were always at Pfeifer's Inn in Nordallee, so were our fathers - Hans, his father was called; I was too young, of course, although at one point, I must admit, I had a bit of a crush on his sister, who was my friend Erwin's age. My brother went to Oskar's wedding, he came home unexpectedly early that day because apparently the bridegroom had been arrested for a gambling debt as he was leading the bride down the steps of the parish church, and had been taken away by the local police in handcuffs. Must have put a damper on the girl's expectations," he sniggers. "My friend Erwin, by the way, went on to become a world famous motorcycle historian, wrote a whole encyclopedia on them. Erwin Tragatsch his name was, he actually lent me the bike you saw in the other photo."
This gambling habit must have been commonplace Like father like son I'm not sure about Jurassic Spielberg Who if not a Jew
"Hey, your granddad has some interesting stories to tell," my boyfriend says to me, nudging me with his elbow, and beaming at my granddad.
Is he really enjoying himself He grew up in Canada Probably spent half the year sitting by the fire listening to stories
"This is all news to me, too. They generally stonewall anything to do with those years," I whisper back.
Play deaf and dumb was their tactic Still is
"Mind if I ask you about the war?" He turns back to my granddad. "Where were you deployed to?"
Oh no We don't want to go down that road I could go spend a penny Can't abandon him to his fate
"Both Eastern and Western Front. Frost-bitten big toe and some shrapnel embedded in my leg still. I was the sighter on a Grille Sturmpanzer, the K model."
Grille as in cricket There was a mouse too Silly names for deadly machines
"I have always meant to ask you," I seize the opportunity, "in such a cramped space, what do you do to avoid feeling like a caged animal?"
Did I just ask that Spare me the details Where did they pee
He stares into space for a while, and with a shrug of his shoulder, he obliges me with an answer: "Between the five of us, we invented a game, as a way to widen our horizons. Probably helped with the whole bonding thing as well, you know. We were like brothers. Come to think of it, it might have been why my lieutenant backed me up when I refused a direct order to shoot a captive another officer had handed over to me. The first black man I had ever seen, tall, and thin as a stick."
Wow Granddad had balls Why didn't the others Really What about Geneva A Game
"An American?" we ask, in unison.
Say No please Lie if needs be This could become awkward
"Nah," he replies, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily. "He didn't speak, his teeth were chattering too much, he was shaking like a leaf. He watched our argument wide eyed, bloodshot they were, I remember it vividly, I remember thinking how red the whites of his eyes were. When my lieutenant gestured to him to get into our vehicle to be taken to HQ, he mouthed 'merci' in my direction, so I assumed he must have been from the French Colonies." He slumps a little in his chair, suddenly seeming much
older.
Did I see him hesitate Was he lying What happened to the poor sod Probably shot him anyway Wasn't he wearing a uniform Bastards The French sent them into battle barefoot and when it was all over they didn't even give them a pension All bastards the whole bloody lot of them There were no winners not where the foot soldiers were concerned anyway
I let out air with a hiss, I must have held my breath without noticing it. "This game you mentioned, how was it played?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
How wide were the horizons expanded Stop that I could really do with a fag now
"Aah," he says, "it was quite ingenious, really, we called it 'A Day in the Life': whoever picked the short straw had to recount a day of his past, while the others listened quietly. If you like, I can give you a
demonstration."
Like it Sounds like a Beatles song Go ahead
"Quiet please," my gran, who had been listening in on us, calls out, rapping on her shot glass with a coffee spoon: "Kurt is going to tell us all a story of his life."
Alright already Frau Oberlehrer
"Let me take you back in time, to the year 1928," he says, with all eyes on him.
He was nine then A playground story His father died in '27, his mum in '29 Turns out he's a closet raconteur
Right now, my granddad is well into his second damson brandy and relishing his third JPS Green Filter, and the rest of the family - except for tight-lipped Elke - is still chuckling about my granddad having called my cousin, who is a year older than me, a milksop ('smetabart', he had said) after having finished off the salad dressing drinking directly from the bowl and unwittingly sporting a cream-stained upper lip. His wife, apparently used to this sort of thing - they had a 3-year old - had unceremoniously wiped his moustache with her napkin, to his acute discomfort.
Aunt Renate, visibly by a different father as my mum yet born in Sudetenland like my granddad – at 17, my gran had avoided the devastating bombings of Nürnberg by fleeing to Freudenthal where her first husband had hailed from, only to have to make the reverse trek by foot minus a husband (shot in September 1944 by a sniper in Belgium, at 19 years of age), plus an infant (born in March of the same year) - comes back from the kitchen singing a ridiculous Peter Alexander song from the year dot praising 'Powidltatschkerln', blows a strand of hair dyed royal blue out of her eye and plonks the glass pot with freshly brewed coffee and a huge platter of the fragrant flummery - fried potato turnovers with a delicious plum filling typical of Bohemia - on the table.
Michael the Milksop He has fathered a child Does that make my cousin a man In his case I doubt it Shut up I never liked him His wife's worse Moose-face Elke Get a grip
"I used to help my mother whenever she made them for dessert", my granddad suddenly says, wistfully looking at his plate, "it was my job to coat them with the spiced breadcrumbs. One day I mistook nutmeg for cinnamon, and everybody liked them so much that from then on my mum used a mixture of both," he goes on to say, seemingly pleased with himself for remembering.
You can actually murder someone with nutmeg Doubt it Who wouldn't notice the overdosing Cinnamon's probably harmful too
"My father actually trained as a baker and confectioner when he was in his teens," my mum, dabbing at her mouth with a dark green paper napkin, informs Mike sitting next to her, perched on his chair
rather like a startled sparling.
As far as I can remember, he's never once made me a cake Never baked a loaf of bread How strange I've only ever known him to roast the goose on Christmas Day Why is that.
"You could have told me this before," I chide my grandfather, "you're always going on about them, but we've never actually had them. I doubt great grandmother loosened the damson plums with 'Sliwowitz', though."
How is it actually pronounced Probably not like the German 'Witz' as in joke I suppose the Czechs use a different ending Maybe Vice Pronounced Vitse
"Not while his father was still around, I should imagine," snorts grandmother Lotte, firmly putting the cork back into the brandy bottle and moving the JPS packet out of my granddad's reach.
Oh really gran Party pooper I could do with another one so as to drown out that stupid Powidldatschgerln song Would she take away the packet if I lit one up Menthol Probably poisonous
"In the final stages of his Tuberculosis, she had to hide everything from him, or he would have traded in her wedding ring, he was drowning himself in alcohol and had gambled away a fortune, including my mother's house, which she had to sign over to his creditors shortly before her demise. That's why Irma and I ended up at the local orphanage two years later, after my mother's death. Three of my siblings already dead, my sister Mimi dying of TBC and the remaining three siblings destitute, all because of his insalubrious habits," he rants, angrily sloshing the remainder of his coffee, taken black with 2 sugars, around in its cup. "Of course," he continues, "neither of our respectable uncles and aunts deigned to take us in, although I was only ten, Irma twelve, and Hermann had just been accepted into the postal service." He stiffly gets up and walks, a little unsteadily, over to the bookshelf to pull out his album.
Some family Drunks gamblers and bloody misers on granddad's side and blasted beauty queens escorts ha and surprise drunks on gran's side Surprised I turned out ordinary Wouldn't go as far as to say normal
"Here we go," my mum says conversationally to Mike, "do me a favour: don't mention the war."
Yeah right Bloody Basil My cousin looks a bit like him Bet he pulls on his wellies and does the goose step at home
"Did I ever tell you that my brother Hermann died in a field hospital because the medics thought he was feigning," Granddad says, slowly making his way back to his seat of honour at the head of the table.
What the heck I doubt it's just a cracked rib Are you the Doctor or me Get your arse off the gurney and walk Butchers
"You started it," my gran tells off my mum.
That was my line Blast it She has the accent down a treat
"No, I haven't, you have - I wasn't even born until four years after," she bickers back.
Touché Nice one mum
"Can we all agree on that deranged Austrian having started it, and get back to our puds," I throw in, peeved. "I've been waiting for the opportunity to say this ever since I watched the 'The Germans' episode of 'Fawlty Towers'," I quietly tell Mike, "and now my gran has unwittingly beaten me to it..."
Do they even watch British Comedy over there or is it all Beavis and Butthead
"¿Qué?" he says, winking at me.
Bloody hell What a catch
I smile back.
Heartthrob NOOO don't pursue that line of thought Naughty
Granddad, who has watched our repartee without actually knowing what has been said, waggles his ears at me. Seizing the opportunity to show off his photos to an unsuspecting newcomer, he pushes the rather thin album towards my boyfriend and points at a photo of himself and a friend on a motorbike.
First time I see this How old is he in the photo Seventeen going on thirty
"This is me, in the mid thirties, in my hometown Zwittau, which is now a part of Czechoslovakia, but then, of course, there were mostly Germans living there." He goes on to point out his family. "This is my brother Hermann, he was quite a bit older than me. As I said earlier, he died during the war, of a perforated intestine. This is my mother, Rosina, called 'Sini', with my father, Robert. He was a master tailor, with his own shop and seven apprentices, a very strict man. This is a photo of my father's family. See this sister? She married a Schindler. Adolfine Schindler. Horrible name for a girl," he smirks, in expectation of an incredulous reaction from my man.
Adolfine It is a horrible name
"You are related to the Schindler?" Mike promptly asks.
Are these G.I.s actually more learned than we give them credit for Who knows who Schindler was Who has ever heard of this Righteous before the Nations stuff
"Speaking of which," my cousin cuts in. "I bought you tickets at the box office, as soon as 'Schindler's List' premiers in Germany, you and gran can go and watch the movie, it's supposed to be monumental."
Ah well Could be an explanation
"I wonder," my grandfather replies, thoughtfully pocketing the cinema tickets, "if they will make mention of anything before the war, or even show my hometown," he addresses my boyfriend. "Probably not. He was a bit of a go getter, Oskar was - Hermann was thick with him, they were always at Pfeifer's Inn in Nordallee, so were our fathers - Hans, his father was called; I was too young, of course, although at one point, I must admit, I had a bit of a crush on his sister, who was my friend Erwin's age. My brother went to Oskar's wedding, he came home unexpectedly early that day because apparently the bridegroom had been arrested for a gambling debt as he was leading the bride down the steps of the parish church, and had been taken away by the local police in handcuffs. Must have put a damper on the girl's expectations," he sniggers. "My friend Erwin, by the way, went on to become a world famous motorcycle historian, wrote a whole encyclopedia on them. Erwin Tragatsch his name was, he actually lent me the bike you saw in the other photo."
This gambling habit must have been commonplace Like father like son I'm not sure about Jurassic Spielberg Who if not a Jew
"Hey, your granddad has some interesting stories to tell," my boyfriend says to me, nudging me with his elbow, and beaming at my granddad.
Is he really enjoying himself He grew up in Canada Probably spent half the year sitting by the fire listening to stories
"This is all news to me, too. They generally stonewall anything to do with those years," I whisper back.
Play deaf and dumb was their tactic Still is
"Mind if I ask you about the war?" He turns back to my granddad. "Where were you deployed to?"
Oh no We don't want to go down that road I could go spend a penny Can't abandon him to his fate
"Both Eastern and Western Front. Frost-bitten big toe and some shrapnel embedded in my leg still. I was the sighter on a Grille Sturmpanzer, the K model."
Grille as in cricket There was a mouse too Silly names for deadly machines
"I have always meant to ask you," I seize the opportunity, "in such a cramped space, what do you do to avoid feeling like a caged animal?"
Did I just ask that Spare me the details Where did they pee
He stares into space for a while, and with a shrug of his shoulder, he obliges me with an answer: "Between the five of us, we invented a game, as a way to widen our horizons. Probably helped with the whole bonding thing as well, you know. We were like brothers. Come to think of it, it might have been why my lieutenant backed me up when I refused a direct order to shoot a captive another officer had handed over to me. The first black man I had ever seen, tall, and thin as a stick."
Wow Granddad had balls Why didn't the others Really What about Geneva A Game
"An American?" we ask, in unison.
Say No please Lie if needs be This could become awkward
"Nah," he replies, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily. "He didn't speak, his teeth were chattering too much, he was shaking like a leaf. He watched our argument wide eyed, bloodshot they were, I remember it vividly, I remember thinking how red the whites of his eyes were. When my lieutenant gestured to him to get into our vehicle to be taken to HQ, he mouthed 'merci' in my direction, so I assumed he must have been from the French Colonies." He slumps a little in his chair, suddenly seeming much
older.
Did I see him hesitate Was he lying What happened to the poor sod Probably shot him anyway Wasn't he wearing a uniform Bastards The French sent them into battle barefoot and when it was all over they didn't even give them a pension All bastards the whole bloody lot of them There were no winners not where the foot soldiers were concerned anyway
I let out air with a hiss, I must have held my breath without noticing it. "This game you mentioned, how was it played?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
How wide were the horizons expanded Stop that I could really do with a fag now
"Aah," he says, "it was quite ingenious, really, we called it 'A Day in the Life': whoever picked the short straw had to recount a day of his past, while the others listened quietly. If you like, I can give you a
demonstration."
Like it Sounds like a Beatles song Go ahead
"Quiet please," my gran, who had been listening in on us, calls out, rapping on her shot glass with a coffee spoon: "Kurt is going to tell us all a story of his life."
Alright already Frau Oberlehrer
"Let me take you back in time, to the year 1928," he says, with all eyes on him.
He was nine then A playground story His father died in '27, his mum in '29 Turns out he's a closet raconteur
***
Has Hermann bought a motorbike?" Erwin runs ahead, he adores anything fast on wheels, and wants to inspect the shiny red beauty parked in front of our house.
"Not that I know of. Maybe he has popped in with one of his mates," I answer.
Mum nosily pokes her head out of the window, wanting to find out who is the source of this excited chatter.
"Mum, I brought Erwin along, his mum sends you one of her herbal pillows."
The mingled scents of pine and eucalyptus emanating from Erwin's satchel are making me dizzy and I want to see the last of it.
"Who does the motorcycle belong to, Mrs. Neubauer?" he shouts up to my mum.
"It's Oskar's. Hermann turned up with him a while ago. I have already set the table for one more, would you like to stay for supper, too, Erwin?" she asks him.
"Uuuh, yes, please, what are we having?"
"There's yesterday's 'Tafelspitz' and cabbage, and I'm making 'Birzel' and a cucumber salad. If you do your homework like good boys, there will be 'Powidldatschgerln' later on," she promises. Mum starts to cough, and steps away from the window. It has become worse lately, she is but a wisp. Much worse.
"Come on in, Oskar will surely take you for a ride later if you ask him, but first things first: wash your hands, supper will be served shortly."
My brother and a smartly dressed young man are in the parlour.
Aah, that Oskar, I think to myself and give Erwin a nudge. "Wasn't he in your brother's class? They expelled him from school for diddling his report, remember?" I whisper.
"Yes," he whispers back, "Elfriede's brother."
"Hey there," says Oskar. "How's it going at school? Make sure you're getting
the marks you deserve," and winks at me.
"Is the motorbike yours?" asks Erwin, straight to the point, as usual.
"The Guzzi? Yes. I fetched her from Italy myself, I hitched rides on lorries to get to the factory and then I rode her back. I entered her in the Altvater Circuit Race last week," he tells us.
"Did you win?" I ask.
"Nope, not this time I didn't," he says, exhaling loudly. I actually let someone else win," he says enigmatically. "But I came third in the Obeschitz Race at Brünn," he adds as an afterthought.
Oscar's remark, delivered in his usual casual style, causes Erwin's expression to change from referential adoration to one of puzzlement.
Hermann takes pity on him. "He let Henkelmann push his DKV across the finish line ahead of him," he informs him, slapping his forehead with his hand and shaking his head.
"What?" I blurt out. "What happened?"
Oskar whistles softly through his teeth.
"If the poor sod hadn' t run out of petrol he clearly would have won, so I braked and let him climb the podium. He was wheezing so hard, I thought he was going to drop dead there and then," he frowns at the memory.
"You're off your head," says Erwin, tapping his right temple with his index finger.
"Noble of you," says mum, slowly and neatly putting down a dark green napkin by the side of his plate.
Oscar shrugs his shoulders. "A question of honour," he says, loosening his tie and folding it over his shoulder. "May he rest in peace," he adds, Hermann
murmuring the same phrase and making the sign of the cross.
I'm wondering what they're on about. Tough luck, shouldn't have run out of petrol.
"I heard Willi wrapped his motorbike around a signpost on the way back to Germany," he explains to mum, "he's gone."
Erwin pulls a face. I still don't understand.
Mum puts an extra dollop of sour cream on Oskar´s cucumber salad. "If I remember correctly, you're a Smetabart," she teases him, trying to ease the situation.
Oskar winks at me again. "Go right ahead," he tells my mum, and takes a second bread roll. "Aunt Sini, I'd like to commission my wedding suit to be tailored here," he says to her conversationally.
Hermann chokes on his piece of roll dipped in cream of horseradish, his face the colour of a beetroot. "What wedding," he gasps, "are you out of your mind?"
I'm thinking that this is the second time today that somebody is calling him crazy.
"Leave him alone," says mum, "I'm sure he knows what he's doing."
"That's right," says Oskar, and grins. "She gave those stuck up nuns such a hard time at her school that they expelled her - the girl is a safe bet." This time my mum gets the benefit of his wink, and she giggles. "That makes two of us to have been given the boot just before graduation, that way, she can't nag me for it later on. Her father can rage at her for agreeing to marry a 'Hallodri'* as he calls me, until he's blue in the face - Milli said 'Yes', and that's the end of it," he smiles.
"And what does your father have to say?" my mum asks him, all concern.
Oskar pulls a face. "Who gives a crap what the old fart says. Because of him, people call me 'Schindler the Crook'," he says, flustered, "when really it had been him who had tricked people out of their money."
"Your father, and my Robert, may he rest in peace, have gambled and drunk away house, home and honour. You're quite right. Good-for-nothings don't get a say. You go ahead and marry your Milli, but don't make her unhappy, she deserves a gent, not a crook."
Mum gets up to call in the apprentices for their lunch. "Franz," she says to the oldest as they file in, "can you take Oskar's measurements later, for a double-breasted suit."
Franz just nods, never one for many words.
"I want it to match the grenadine tie from Como I have talked Naco Guzzi at the Montello factory into giving me. I have brought it along, remind me to show it to you later."
Franz nods again, and rolls his eyes behind their backs.
* scallywag
"Oskar," says mum, "can you take aunt Adolfine her bowls? They have been collecting dust here since Robert's wake."
"Of course," he says, "I need to have a word with cousin Karl anyway, he's on good terms with the Padre, and we want a ceremony at the Parish Church." He adds as an afterthought: "If they fit in my knapsack, that is - the Guzzi is a racing bike and doesn't have a rack."
"If you let me have your satchel, I'll wrap them in newspaper and find a way to make them fit, would that be alright?" my mum asks him.
"No problem, I'll try and deliver them in one piece. Who knows, I might get lucky, and your sister-in-law parts with a bottle of her famous Slivovice as a way of thanking me. I'm going to have a smoke," he says, "anyone care to join
me?“
We all get up.
"Kurt," mum says sharply, "don't you dare!"
I pull a face and stick out my tongue at her. "Dad let me smoke at First Communion," I say sullenly.
"Your dad," my mum answers drily, "had probably had one too many, as usual."
The winking again, this time accompanied by a waggling of the ears. He is making me laugh. I make a mental note to try it out in front of the mirror later. He shakes a packet of Player's from his jacket hanging from the chair, and comradely passes me one when mum's not looking. "For later", he whispers.
Erwin asks him for the empty packet, he likes the image of the sailor.
Hermann chuckles.
I wonder why.
"Player's," he says, and slaps Oskar on the back with the flat of his hand, "how fitting."
Oskar laughs his easy laugh. "Speaking of which," he says, "Erwin, tell your brother to join me at Pfeifer's tomorrow, the publican has managed to get his hands on a bottle of Hennessy, my treat. It would give me the opportunity to pay him back the money he lent me last time. Who knows, I might even win it back," he says on his way out, "I'm on a lucky streak." He whistles through his teeth again, and looks at his watch.
I'm looking at it, too. That's my watch, it flashes through my mind. "I lent it to you for your rondayvoo last Sunday, you scoundrel," I scream, and pommel my brother's arm.
"You're getting it back, it's just a pawn," he defends himself and ducks away.
"This is your watch?" Oskar asks me, taking it off and handing it to me.
“Hermann," he addresses my brother sharply, "I will give you till tomorrow." He turns to me. "He didn't strike it lucky at his rendezvous," he says, laughing, "after almost crushing Evi's foot while dancing, she went home early. Limping."
My anger dissolves, and I laugh. "I'm not lending you anything ever again. Don't bother to ask."
Hermann rolls his eyes and walks out the door.
What's with all the eye-rolling today? I wonder. I can hear mum scolding him in the corridor. Serves him right. I make up my mind to wink at Elfi tomorrow, she's only a couple of years older, maybe she'll go dancing with me someday. "Erwin," I ask my pal, "what are you supposed to do at a rondayvoo?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know, really. Count the girls' freckles, my brother says."
Huh? I'm thinking, what's that good for? I doubt Elfi has any.
Franz waves Oskar over to the workshop. He stubs out his cigarette, walks over to the bike, opens a small leather tank bag, takes out a roll of something
slim, lustrous and chocolate-coloured, and walks over to him.
Mum fetches us to do our homework. We set to it, the promise of dessert too tempting.
Erwin whinges about having to repeat 'shipping company' twenty times in his best handwriting. He settles for 'Lloyd', "It's shorter," he says, and then goes on to tell me that he wants to sail to America. "I'll get myself an 'Indian' motocycle, drive her up to the Hudson Bay, and then I'll puff on a peace pipe with the natives." I laugh. The things Erwin comes up with.
I hear clattering from the kitchen. Let's see if mum's got the potato turnovers in the pot yet. We're lucky, even the pan with the golden fried breadcrumbs and the icing sugar tin with the punctured lid have been set up already.
"Let me do it, mum." I take the first turnover off her, and carefully coat one after the other with buttery crumbs, while Erwin sifts sugar over them with panache.
"Well done, Kurt, you're all set to become a baker."
I harrumph, the deliciously spiced morsel in my mouth impeding me from answering back. Erwin is oblivious of the cloud of white powder on his nose.
"Let's go over to the tailor's shop," Erwin says to me.
I stall. Erwin's curiosity is roused.
"Let's hear it. What's up with the shop?"
"Nothing's wrong with the shop," says mum. "Kurt's just not allowed in anymore."
"What," says Erwin, blinking his eyes. "What's he done?"
"Nothing," I murmur.
"He sewed across his finger. And I had strictly forbidden him to go near the machines."
I'd rather not get into that now, I can feel myself getting hot under the collar and the silly scar on my finger starting to itch.
"Blimey," says Erwin. "Is it still showing?"
"No," I grumble, and put my hands in my pockets. Blast, they are buttery from the breadcrumbs.
Hermann pokes his head round the door. "Have you packed Oskar's rucksack yet?" he asks, sees the already half empty platter and snatches four pastries.
Mum raises an eyebrow.
Two are for Oskar," he says and makes off with the bag, with Erwin, who is determined to have a go on the Guzzi, on his heels.
"You can give me a ride to Iglauer Strasse, can't you?" he wheedles.
"Alright then. It's a squeeze, though. But keep your mouth shut, so as not to swallow a fly." Oskar puts his fancy Italian silk tie back into the bag, straps the backpack on so it is a frontpack, puts on a leather cap and waves at mum who is looking out of the window, suddenly seeming a bit grey-faced.
"Drive carefully," she calls down, "and pass on my regards to the family."
"Will do," he answers cheerfully.
With Erwin hanging on for dear life like a limpet onto its rock, he turns the engine over.
They are almost round the corner, when Max bolts out of the neighbours' gate.
The brewer's lorry is turning the corner.
I throw up my arms and squeeze my eyes shut.
Mum shrieks.
Oskar madly beeps the horn and the bike comes to a lurching stop.
The drayman slams on the brakes.
Max puts his ears back.
The lorry comes to an abrupt stop, and the driver rolls the window down.
"What's up?" he bellows.
Oskar points at Max. "You almost got him."
The driver blows his top. "All the kegs got upset."
Oskar shrugs his shoulders. "Klaus. Don´t worry about your beer, it won´t have turned sour. There was no room for hesitating. If someone's in danger, you just do what it takes. Pop into Pfeifer's after your round tomorrow, and I'll stand you a drink, to get you over the fright."
Klaus rolls his window up with an angry shake of his head, gives a short exasperated wave, and drives on.
Max wags his tail.
Oskar honks the horn one more time, Erwin raises his hand, and off they go.
Oskar's really something, I think.
***
Well knock me down with a feather
A quick, surreptitious look around confirms the impact: mum is staring down the dregs in her wine glass, gran is doing her 'I'm superior' eyebrow-thing.
Honestly gran You're missing the point as usual
Cousin is staring glassy-eyed into space, what's-her-name is busily stacking dessert plates, seemingly unimpressed, while auntie is fiddling with her electric blue foulard.
Going to call him Basil from now on Short for Basilisk His wife never looks anyone in the eye
Mike has a look of slight disbelief on his face while granddad is looking decidedly smug.
We all keep quiet for a while, not sure whether my granddad is going to continue. He himself breaks the silence, and cheekily asks my gran for a glass of beer.
Now I really need to go for a wee Having a beer would not be a good idea
"You should be so lucky," she answers, mocking him, and gets up to go into the kitchen.
She isn't going to fetch him a beer Should I offer to do the washing up No I did the bloody cooking Right I'm going to the loo
I catch my boyfriend winking at my granddad.
Look at that Fits right in Don't waggle your ears at me snookums or I swear I will flare my nostrils at you
"I think we should be heading home now, thanks for a lovely afternoon," I hear Mike saying as I walk out the door, "may I come back for more stories?"
"You certainly may, my boy," my grandfather tells him, winking. "Mustn't forget the Player's."
A quick, surreptitious look around confirms the impact: mum is staring down the dregs in her wine glass, gran is doing her 'I'm superior' eyebrow-thing.
Honestly gran You're missing the point as usual
Cousin is staring glassy-eyed into space, what's-her-name is busily stacking dessert plates, seemingly unimpressed, while auntie is fiddling with her electric blue foulard.
Going to call him Basil from now on Short for Basilisk His wife never looks anyone in the eye
Mike has a look of slight disbelief on his face while granddad is looking decidedly smug.
We all keep quiet for a while, not sure whether my granddad is going to continue. He himself breaks the silence, and cheekily asks my gran for a glass of beer.
Now I really need to go for a wee Having a beer would not be a good idea
"You should be so lucky," she answers, mocking him, and gets up to go into the kitchen.
She isn't going to fetch him a beer Should I offer to do the washing up No I did the bloody cooking Right I'm going to the loo
I catch my boyfriend winking at my granddad.
Look at that Fits right in Don't waggle your ears at me snookums or I swear I will flare my nostrils at you
"I think we should be heading home now, thanks for a lovely afternoon," I hear Mike saying as I walk out the door, "may I come back for more stories?"
"You certainly may, my boy," my grandfather tells him, winking. "Mustn't forget the Player's."
***
I´ll see to it. Cross my heart.
Back cover photos:
Upper row: Kurt Neubauer, pre-war in Zwittau, Sudetenland (driver)
Centre: Kurt´s mother Sini (Rosina), brother Hermann, father Robert
Lower row: the Neubauers, far left: Kurt's aunt Adolfine Schindler (née Neubauer), far right: Kurt's father Robert Neubauer
Upper row: Kurt Neubauer, pre-war in Zwittau, Sudetenland (driver)
Centre: Kurt´s mother Sini (Rosina), brother Hermann, father Robert
Lower row: the Neubauers, far left: Kurt's aunt Adolfine Schindler (née Neubauer), far right: Kurt's father Robert Neubauer
