My French Connection.

I want to share a story from my life with you; from the time

when I was a teenager. No TVs, smart phones or other mod cons then, and life was less hectic, less complicated and more relaxed than today.  However, I was never bored as I had hobbies and was an avid reader, which I still am today. I was always keen to learn about new things to accumulate knowledge.  I was also relentless in asking questions.

There is no better way to learn than by asking questions about how and why this or that is so or done etc. I must have driven people to exasperation at times by asking them questions – however, asking questions hasn’t left me to this day. I had (I still have) the propensity to do things my way without asking whether I could do it or not. Needless to say, this was causing my parents and grandparents consternation and anxieties – and also brought me into trouble. Here is one of these stories.  I hope you find it amusing, although it was not so at the time. – Werner
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PS: There is an old German song  that starts with: Schön ist die Jugend, aber sie kommt nicht mehr zurück“. Meaning, adolescence is beautiful,  but it never returns. Thus, my thought for the day at the bottom.
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Here is my story “My French connection”.
My propensity to make unilateral decisions as a youngster often resulted in undesirable consequences. My self-assured thinking and my tendency never to ask whether I could or should, in order to avoid a negative response, was more than often a great concern to my parents and grandparents.

The time was 1945; the end of world war two, and our State was occupied by French occupation forces. We were a farming community and each farm had its own distillery to make schnapps from grapes and fruit, such as cherries, plums and apples, the sale of which brought in extra income.

Through my occasional riding around on my pushbike, I became acquainted with a French soldier with a somewhat dark complexion, who often went for a walk along the road when off duty. He conversed with me in very limited German and sometimes asked for a short ride on my bike. Perhaps, I was a bit naïve and gullible – or both – and I never suspected that there could be an ulterior motive behind his quest to befriend me. One thing was certain; I would never have trusted him in a dark alley.

One day, like a bolt out of the blue, he asked me if I could supply him with some Schnapps. "Schnapps?" I repeated with some surprise and incredulity. "What’s in it for me?" I asked myself. Hold on a second, though, we need petrol for the spray pump. "Can you supply me with petrol?" I asked him cautiously. "Yes," was his emphatic reply.

We agreed to exchange four litres of Schnapps for twenty litres of petrol. This was a clandestine operation and he suggested that he deliver the petrol in bottles so that the ‘trading’ remained inconspicuous – after all, he had to pilfer the stuff, and keeping the action quiet was paramount. Taking Schnapps from my family without their knowledge (which in the end would be to their benefit anyway) never caused me to think that what I intended to do was tantamount to pilfering – never, because I was part of that family.

We stored our distilled alcohol in big twenty- to thirty-litre glass bottles, protected on the outside with a wicker basket-like cage, and taking out a few litres of Schnapps would not have been easily detected. Since this was a top secret operation we needed a ‘drop zone’ where this covert exchange would take place, and we decided that the spot would be under a certain thicket in the nearby forest. I know it might appear that I plagiarized an episode from a popular spy thriller but this was certainly not the case.

Like a chess player, I was thinking a couple of moves ahead, and I anticipated that my family elders ultimately would have wanted to know where on earth I got that petrol from, and what it had cost. I would be ready with my answer. "I received the petrol in return for letting the French soldier ride on my bike." I already visualized the pleasantly surprised look on the faces of my parents and grandfather. On the other hand, perhaps I was just kidding myself. The thought that I might be engaging in a game of brinkmanship with unforeseen consequences never entered my mind. The desire to surprise my family with the much-needed petrol overrode my capacity for rational thinking.

When nobody was home, I filled up four bottles of Schnapps – that clear-as-water liquid which was drunk for different reasons – the most common being for medicinal purposes, such as helping with digestion, getting intoxicated to forget all your troubles, and of course at the same time killing your intestinal worms.

The bottled and corked product was now put in my long trouser legs – two bottles in each leg – with the shoe end of the trousers tightly fastened together with string. Thus I was able to kill three flies with one stroke: the secret operation stayed secret, I didn’t lose the bottles, and I could ride my bike to the ‘drop zone’ without arousing suspicion. With my trouser legs emptied of the secret cargo, and my ‘deposit’ placed in the pre-determined hiding place, my part of the contract was fulfilled. In due course, I would be in possession of my petrol. Or so I thought.

When I returned a few hours later, full of expectations to see some ‘bottled petrol’ where I put the Schnapps, I discovered to my shock that the Schnapps had disappeared, but no petrol had appeared in its place. It was a case of the nest being empty and the bird having flown. I wondered if the fellow was caught pilfering and was now under arrest or perhaps he hadn’t found an opportune moment to do the ‘bottling’, or perhaps he was just sick. Regular checks of the thicket over a few days produced the same result – nothing. I found it odd that the soldier didn’t seem to go for walks anymore, and despite riding my bike back and forth in front of the army compound never saw a glimpse of him. Asking for him was out of the question for obvious reasons. There must be a reason I thought, perhaps he had drunk all the Schnapps in one hit and not only killed his worms, but himself as well.

Gradually, however, I started to suspect a con with a capital C, when suddenly after a week or so I ran into him while walking on the road. "What happened to my petrol?" I demanded angrily. He was able to convince me with his spurious excuses that he had been sick and unable to get the petrol, but he assured me "I’ll get it for you in a day or so." Unfortunately I hadn’t yet learned to mistrust people – even a former enemy. So when he asked me once more if he could have the bike for a ride I foolishly consented, and watched him disappear out of sight. After waiting for some time for him to return the bike, I somewhat dejectedly walked home. When I hadn’t got my bike back by nightfall, I decided there was no alternative, but to tell my parents and my grandfather what had happened.

Having given some consideration to the situation I found myself in, I decided that the time had arrived when I had to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about the affair. Knowing quite well my capability to pull off such capers and make decisions on my own, the family ‘executive’ was not unduly shocked, and afforded me some allowance for my good intentions. Grandfather reported the matter to the local constable who was stationed in the next village two kilometres away. The man in blue duly arrived on his bicycle at our place and asked me a series of questions, and subsequently reported the matter to the local French Commandant.

Soon afterwards, the local Commandant turned up at our home with two officers, one being the interpreter. He was really friendly and the whole matter was discussed in an amiable atmosphere. They showed me a few photos from which I identified my would-be petrol supplier. From their body language, it appeared that particular soldier had come to their attention on previous occasions. As they bade us goodbye, they offered to supply us with some petrol. We found this amazing: what a nice way to foster good relations with a former enemy. I don’t know what happened to the soldier, but I never encountered him again.

The French Commandant was not the same loquacious firebrand who gave my father a lecture for failing to remove his hat at a flag-lowering ceremony. (That is another story). Interestingly this friendly commandant, after retiring from the army, settled in the neighbouring village two kilometers away with his German wife. His hobby was bee keeping and, incidentally, so was mine. Our mutual interest brought us together again and we formed an excellent relationship. Over many cups of coffee and glasses of wine we talked ‘bees’ and reminisced about the petrol and Schnapps affair. It just goes to show how situations, circumstances and attitudes can change within a short time span – former enemies can become friends.
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My thought for today.
Time is like a river. You cannot touch the water twice, because the flow that has passed will never pass again. Enjoy every moment of life. - Anon
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