Archive for May 2010

25 May, 2010 | Posted by: photosource

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RUDI'S HARMONICA

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FARM IN CRAVANT

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SUNDAY DINNER

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NEWSPAPER

My Story

# 20

Waking up in the morning is such a routine. Like breathing. At least it was for me before this journey of mine. Back in Wuerzburg in the Army waking up meant no matter what time you went to bed, you always woke up the same time, and the same sound –reveille… played on a scratchy record down the hall somewhere. And back at prep school at Mercersburg – the 6:00 a.m. carillon bells gong, gong, gonging away at the chapel across the quadrangle, and back in Baltimore at art school –an abrasive-sounding alarm clock I inherited from my brother.

Prisoners, they probably wish they didn’t have to wake up. Or men who work at jobs they hate. They wish they could lie in bed all day. Everyone has to wake up. I can’t think of anyone that doesn’t have to do it. Wake up. Well, maybe some rich people or royalty. People like that. They can sleep all day if they want to. Or insomniacs that can’t sleep. And also, I’ve heard of people that never go to sleep. They don’t have to go through the routine of waking up.

It used to be I didn’t like waking up – or maybe it was I didn’t like someone or something waking me up. But now, on this trip, I was beginning to like waking up. Maybe it was the aroma of clover that greeted me outside our tent on a grassy knoll in eastern France, or maybe it was the sound of a rooster and his cackling hens outside a barn window.

I could elect to lie there and listen or maybe fall back to sleep or I could get up and take a walk before everyone else was stirring. Usually I would get up and get dressed and start walking around wherever I was. Like in a city or village or farm or something. I would creep out and start looking around. That time of the morning if you saw someone on the street they didn’t have the energy to stare at you or ask questions, they were just as sleepy as you were, so I had the village or whatever all to myself just to look around without the distraction of people.
I think as I look back on it now, one of the reasons I didn’t go back to sleep was because it wasn’t easy. Rudi snored. I mean he really snored. I guess it was because of his broken nose. I guess he had his sinuses all banged up when he smashed his nose when the vegetable truck he was riding in back in Wuesterheide went into the ditch when that Mustang or Spitfire strafed those people.

Boy! Could he snore!
Anyway…
In the morning, both of us wo ke up with the rest of the farm animals that were sniffing and snorting in the barn. Marie knocked on the door, “C’mon boys, time for some breakfast!”
We went in and Madame Rouge was preparing the usual French farm breakfast, a roll and a cup of coffee. That was 5:30 a.m., but later in the morning, at 10:00 a.m. we got a more substantial meal, two rolls and a cup of coffee.

“Got a lot of work for you guys today,” Monsieur Rogue greeted us. Either of you fellows know anything about chickens?”
“Sure, I do!” I popped up; “We used to have them when we lived out in the country when I was little.” I thought he was going to ask me to go out and feed the chickens or something.
“Good. See that crate over there?” I looked to where he was pointing in the yard. There must have been at least a dozen chickens in a big crate. “I want you to cut off their necks and have them cleaned and dressed by the time Madame Rouge and I return from town!” I took a gulp, as he handed me a meat ax.

I’m a great friend of animals, and I find it hard to swat a fly or step on a cricket. I looked at Rudi, and he just grinned at the predicament I was in. By this time, he’d gotten to know me enough that unless it was for our survival, I didn’t have it in me to go off and volunteer to kill something unless the situation called for it. As Monsieur Rouge went into a shed, Rudi leaned over and whispered , “Better take care of your job Engh, or he’ll think you’re a coward!” and he poked me in the ribs.
“Rudi! I gotta job for you; come with me!”
“Yes, sir!” Rudi shouted, snapping to attention. He followed Monsieur Rouge, turning and looking back at me smiling as he swung his arm in a whirling motion as though he were chopping off a giant chicken’s head. “Watch out! They got long teeth!” he shouted back.
Marie showed me the chopping block; it was a blood-stained tree stump. I turned to the task at hand, and scratching my head, wondered what kind of mess I was going to make of these twelve chickens. Luckily, I had watched my older brother, Lynn, decapitate chickens when I was younger. I opened the crate and grabbed one of the chickens, but dammit! --two others popped out before I could get the top closed again. I ran around the farmyard holding the one chicken in my arm like a football, and tried to catch the other two. Marie laughed. Dodging, ducking, sliding and running was going to be in vain. She came to the rescue, and in a matter of a few seconds had the two chickens cornered, and returned them to the cage. With her arms folded, and a teasing smile on her face, she came over to examine my guillotine operations. I couldn’t let her down, and recalled as best I could how my brother, Lynn, had done it. It was either the chicken, or me.
I grabbed the poor squawking animal by the two legs. I put it fluttering on Monsieur Rouge’s tree stump, said some kind of pagan prayer, and with one swift accurate blow, brought the ax down on the chicken’s neck. Blood splattered everywhere. In only a few short seconds the poor creature was running about the farmyard without a head, spouting a geyser of blood. The head lay there on the stump, blinking its eye, like it was winking at me.
Marie giggled at the sight of the chicken frantically bumping into fences and barn doors in search of its head. I tried to catch the body to settle it down, but Marie yelled, “Let it alone; you’ll get yourself all bloody! It’ll soon run out of gas!”
There were eleven more to go, so I rolled up my sleeves and went about the job, hoping that my stomach would last the ordeal. I won’t tell you about the near misses. By the time I had finished the last chicken, Marie had the de-feathering machine running. It was a power-driven wheel with pieces of rubber from old tires attached to it that whirled around, beating most of the feathers off the birds. Marie showed me where to cut them open for cleaning. Like a dedicated surgeon I removed the insides, sorted them out, and then plugged the chickens up again with the edible giblets.

Right before the midday meal Rudi returned, covered with what looked like mud. “You get a good job?” I shouted to him as he headed for the back of the house where they had an outside shower stall.
“You know what a honey wagon is?” He yelled over to me in a disgusted tone. I remembered the big long wooden barrel-shaped horse-drawn wagons in Germany, full of a mixture of rainwater and manure that the farmers used as a rich fertilizer in early planting season. I nodded to him.

“The spout broke off it while I was laying under it, fixing the rear wheel!”
I laughed and asked him if he needed any soap as he was heading to the outside shower stall. “Yes, and bring me some dry clothes!”
Marie had heard the conversation and yelled out the kitchen window, “You want some perfume too, Rudi?”

He just threw his arms up to the heavens and disappeared into the shower stall. I delivered his clean clothing and Marie volunteered to wash the remaining clothing, in fact, all of our clothing that needed it. We were leaving the farm in the morning.

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19 May, 2010 | Posted by: photosource

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WAITING FOR THE RAIN TO STOP

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A SMALL CREEK AND A RAFT

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THE HOMETOWN NEWSPAPER IS INTERESTED

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ONE WAY PASSAGE TO GREECE FOR RUDI

My Story

# 19

“Well, it all began when I left Yugoslavia and passed through a No Man’s Land to the Greek border.
Rudi crossed his leg, sat back and gripped the arms of a thick wooden chair in the kitchen, preparing to tell his story. He curled his two hands together in a motion that looked like he was rounding a ball of dough or something. Rudi was in his element when he was telling of his exploits. It wasn’t like a casual conversation; it was more like a lecture.

I guess he inherited this lecture style from his grade school teacher, and she interpreted this lecture style from the town’s burgermeister, who’s example was the emperor Kaiser Wilhelm II who the townspeople all listened to on the radio or saw when they went to the movies on a Saturday afternoon in the 1930’s that included the current newsreel from the propaganda office in Berlin.
And that was a podium style where, without a microphone, speaking softly to your audience was not acceptable. It was much like in the movies of the early thirties when actors had just graduated from the theater world of the stage. To be heard, the actor would project loud enough so that the person in the back row could be heard. When you watch the old-time movies you can track the progression and see it took ‘em about ten years of Hollywood films before they could shake off that stiff way of acting and take advantage of the new audio technology.

It’s funny now to watch those old movies but that’s the way it was when Rudi would relate anything about his bicycle trip. That’s the way it sounded and people listening got a kick out of Rudi’s style. He was a real actor and he loved it. Rudi could’ve made a good character actor back in the early days of the movies in Germany except for his broken nose. They didn’t have plastic surgery back then except for the wealthy. But it didn’t seem to matter to him and his love life certainly wasn’t at a disadvantage.

You could say he was at a disadvantage when he was talking with an audience that didn’t speak German, but he would make up for it with words in French and English, even if he didn’t fully speak French or English he made up his own language that you pretty well knew what he was talking about. If he got stuck with a word or phrase he couldn’t express, he would turn to me and I would translate from his German into French or Spanish, where we happened to be. Sometimes I knew what he was talking about but I could tell a lot of people didn’t understand some of what he was saying but I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the whole drama. The rest of the show was too good to interrupt him.

To make it easier for you, I’ll kind of ‘translate’ it for you here.

Rudi continued, “At the Greek border office, there was this fat man with a big black curling waxed moustache and he asked me how much money I had with me to enter his country. I told him I was on a world tour, and I didn’t need much money, and he said, “Do you have twenty-five dollars?” Of course I had to reply that I didn’t, so he took my passport and wrote a big “void until with sufficient funds” across my visa for Greece.

“I asked what I could do then, and he said it didn’t matter to him, just so that I would clear out of his office. So I went back to the Yugoslav border, planning to go back to Yugoslavia and try to raise the twenty-five dollars. The officials there said, “Sorry young man, since you’ve already exited our country, your visa to get back in is invalid. You can’t enter here until you get another one, and you’ll have to go back into Greece to do that.” I told them they wouldn’t let me into Greece, and like they treat all problems like this at the borders he said, “I’m sorry, that’s your problem, not mine!” And he went on about shuffling some papers on his desk to appear busy so I would leave. I left, and there I was, in No Man’s Land, with no place to go.
“How did you ever get out?” Marie asked anxiously.
“At first there was nothing to do but put up my tent, right there in the middle of No Man’s Land.”
“How big an area was that?” Monsieur Rouge asked.
“It was about two miles wide, and extended as far as the Greek-Yugoslav border extended, I guess.”
“And what happened, Rudi?” Marie asked again impatiently.
“The first day, I got pretty hungry, sitting there in front of my tent, watching the cars and trucks pass, trying to think of some way I could get over the border. A passing farmer gave me some potatoes from his wagon. While I was talking to the farmer a car stopped on the morning of the second day. I saw it had a German license plate; he must have seen my German flag hanging from the back of my bike. And he hollered to me, “What’re you up to?” I told him how I was stuck, and we got into a long conversation; and when he left he handed me a ten-dollar USA note and told me he hoped it would help me out. I thanked him and wondered how may weeks it would be ‘til another nice person like that came along.
“With nothing else to do one early morning, I went walking in the nearby mountainside and in the deep woods went down to a creek at the bottom. By my compass, it was flowing south towards Greece. I got to thinking that this might be the answer, so I began finding dead saplings and dry fallen small timber on the ground and with Tarzan type vines and my hunting knife I hitched them all together and by nightfall I had a nice flat raft built big enough to put me and my bicycle on. I tested it out with a steering pole several times the next day. It worked. I loaded up my bike and other belongings.

The next evening I set sail just at sunset and headed south hoping to land somewhere in Greece. The little creek moved slowly and by the light of the stars I could maneuver around any boulders in the creek. If I got stuck in shallow areas, I got out and pushed. All I had to do was crouch low on my raft and hope I would land somewhere in Greece.
“The lights of the Greek military border post was shining out from behind the trees along the bank, and in the dark night I saw silhouettes of soldiers with rifles hung from their backs patrolling the edge of the river with flashlights. I crouched lower, and just hoped the current wouldn’t sweep me close to them . They’d yell, ‘stop or we’ll shoot,' and I wouldn’t have been able to stop, and I can’t speak any Greek, and it would’ve been helluva predicament.”
“What happened Rudi, what happened?” Marie interrupted.
“Well, I passed quietly by, and none of the soldiers saw or heard me. I guess they didn’t expect anyone to be daring as to try and slip under their noses like that. And then I started to think how lucky I was, because I had heard stories of how the Greeks badly treat smugglers and illegal border crossers, and sometimes put them in jail for years when they’re caught, and torture them if they think they’re part of a spy ring, or smuggler’s ring. Or something.

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12 May, 2010 | Posted by: photosource

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PROUD MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

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THE HEAD CHEF AT CORDON BLEU

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OUR CLIPPINGS ARE OUR PASSPORT

My Story

# 18

From my history books in high school I always thought France was this big ‘ol gigantic country. There was so much goin’ on there – Napoleon and all… I thought it would take Rudi and me forever to cross it on a motor scooter.

And then in art school, they were always talking about France and how important it was to the Arts and you couldn’t go anywhere in the world without seeing some important painting or some important place where some French artist was born- that kinda stuff.

But when I was in the Army over in Wuerzburg I hardly heard of France except to hear how lousy the French people were to American tourists and you better not go there. They’ll just snub you and speak under their breath to their friends when they’re looking at you. But I didn’t find any of that so far, even when I had a German guy with me -- and that could’ve ignited a big mess but it didn’t.
Back in Paris, Toby told me he didn’t get any of that. But he said he watched American tourists with their arrogant nature and some of the tourists certainly deserved their poor reputation. They always thought Toby was a Frenchman because he spoke French pretty good. If they spoke to him, and it was usually in a loud voice and poor manners, he just shrugged his shoulders and said “No parley the English” and walked off.

Toby said the last couple of generations of French had been in two wars and had not got much to show for it except losing a lot of their male population. It was like if you brought up the subject of war with them, they always brought up Napoleon and how he almost got the countries of Europe into a United Europe kind of unity thing and that would have been good for everyone, Toby thought.
But we never talked up the subject of war. It would be a ticket to get thrown out of the bistro, or the farmhouse. We didn’t want that. So we never talked about it. It was a subject that really stings with the French and I don’t blame them. Back in art school we used to say, “The French are not fighters, they’re lovers.”
Now, how big is France? I read in a pamphlet at the American Express office in Paris that said France is 211,000 square miles. Texas is 269,000 square miles and California is 164,000 square miles in size. So France is somewhere in between the two of them as far as size goes.

The people at the American Express office had given us a good map of France. Rudi was studying it. He was trying to find the village of Cravant. When he was traveling through France before on his bicycle on his way to India, he spent three days with a farm family outside of Cravant.
r
“They’ll be happy to see us, “ Rudi was confident. “They’ll be surprised too because they made me promise I’d come back again. When I said, ‘Au revoir’ they reminded me that the words mean “—here’s to the return! –“

The weather was cloudy. As we got closer to where we were going, we saw a road sign that said, “Cravant 75 km” There were so many little towns mentioned on the sign posts in France, you almost had to stop and read each one to find which way to go. We had good weather most of the way. Just as we caught sight of the farm homestead, it began to rain. It felt cold. The family’s name was “Rouge”.
The rain was really coming down, and since we were only about five minutes away, there was no use taking shelter. It was getting downright cold! We pulled off the highway and drove up their lane in a teaming downpour of rain. When we arrived at the farmyard, it was a mass of bubbling puddles and scattering rain-soaked chickens. The sound of our scooter must’ve frightened them. People running with rain capes spread over their heads hunched over as if from the weight of the beating rain, were running about the farmyard closing windows and shooing animals into the barn. The darkening sky was shifting the time of day far into late evening and it looked as if the rain was going to set in for the rest of the day.

One teenage girl peeked from beneath the rain cloak draped over her head and shouted, “Heavens! Come into the kitchen quickly before you’re soaked to the skin!”
In the kitchen, she recognized Rudi. “Rudi ...!. You’ve come back!” she shouted, almost jumping like a child. She shouted to a heavy-set woman just coming into the kitchen door draped in rain protection that looked like a table cloth, “Madam Rouge”!! Madame Rouge”!! It’s Rudi! He’s come back. Rudi’s here!”
“Rudi, you ol’ rascal!” she shouted, hanging her rain tarp on a hook on the kitchen wall. “How are you? You ol’ darling.” And she threw her heavy arms around him while he kissed her wet forehead. I could see there was fun in store for the weekend.
“This is Rohn Engh,” my American friend, “he said introducing me to Madame Rouge and the young girl, Marie, a pink-cheeked, Irish-looking girl who asked Rudi, “Do you still have my sun glasses? Remember the ones I gave you when you left, and told you to bring them back to me someday?” Do you still have them, Rudi?” she asked him –very excitedly. He smiled, reached into his travel pouch and brought out a pair of sunglasses that he often wore.
“You mean these?” placing them over her eyes.

“You did, you did!” You brought them back. She shouted bounding around the room, wearing the sunglasses.
“Enough of this foolishness you two!” Madame Rouge said, “Take off those wet shoes, boys and sit here by the stove before you catch your death of cold.” She threw some more kindling into the wood stove.

Can I wear the sunglasses as long as you’re here, Rudi?” Marie asked while we were taking off our shoes.
“Of course you can. But they’re my glasses now. So don’t scratch them or anything!”
Madame Rouge told us to put our motor scooter in a dry shed and when we came back she handed us each a cup. “Now take this hot cup of wine and tell me about yourself Rudi. What’ve you been doing all this time? You look good. You’re not as skinny as when I saw you last, all wiry and bony.” She tied her apron again and said, “I’m fixing supper.”
Down here in this south central part of France, we were getting into the real wine growing part of France and the wine tasted great, even warm like this. I’d never tasted warm wine. I later learned that skiers up in the Alps always drank it this way. They mix a few spices with it like cinnamon and nutmeg I think. They called it ‘grog.’

?? ?Do you like it?” She asked us. I smiled. Rudi nodded his head. That was the funny thing about Rudi. He didn’t have all the manners that I was used to back in Maryland and all the schools I used to go to. You’d think he would be more courteous to people when they gave him something like a hot cup of wine. I used to think for Rudi this was some kind of arrogance or something. But it wasn’t. It was just the way he was brought up, and probably most of the people in Wuesterheide after the war. Or maybe even before the war.
I looked at it this way.
O.K. if I weren’t brought up to say “Thank You” and “Please” after every encounter with people, I’d probably act the same as Rudi. I know there were people in my high school class who were like that. They didn’t mean anything by it. They were people that lived way back in the stix on a farm and had to walk a mile or so just to get the school bus. They didn’t have electric lights on the farm, or any machinery, just horses, and didn’t have a telephone or fridge or even a radio because they didn’t have any electricity. And because the war was going or, they didn’t get anything like that ‘til ‘46 or ’47. Another interesting thing, in the spring at planting time, they didn’t come to school. They had to help out at the farm. It was the same way in the fall at harvest time. They didn’t come to school until all the harvest was done. Their parents just didn’t allow them to attend school when there was work to be done. And they turned out to be pretty bashful people. I know my friend Dave Pearl who had a car, drove to their house one time for some reason, I think the guy was on our baseball team, and when he got there, the little children in the family, I think there were three, all hid behind trees until their older brother who was in our class told them it was O.K. to come out. But they didn’t. They stayed there ‘til Dave left.

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05 May, 2010 | Posted by: photosource

My Story

#17

WHAT’S THIS ? When I was 26, and living in Maryland, USA, I made a wanderlust trip through Europe, Africa, USA, Mexico and Central America that lasted over 35 months, almost three years. That was in 1957-60. When I returned home I began writing a memoir during 1960 and ’61. When I finished, I put it away in a closet and forgot it. I really didn’t forget it. I just didn’t think I should publish it because there were so many episodes and descriptions in there that would prove awkward to people like my relatives and my friends along the way. So I left it all alone. It’s now 2010, almost 40 years later and my family and me are living on a farm in western Wisconsin. I’ll dust off the manuscript and publish it here for the first time. –RE

After the first leg of my voyage through Europe and Africa, I sold my photos and story to the Saturday Evening Post, a popular magazine in 1958. This taught me that maybe I was cut out for a career in photojournalism.

#17

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A FAREWELL TO PARIS

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MONTMARTRE

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ROHN PLAYS A TUNE

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TOBY AT WORK

Toby and Rudi were asleep when I returned to the studio. I tiptoed in and hit the sack immediately. When I woke up Toby was washing up and Rudi was gathering our belongings, preparing for our goodbye to Paris. I went out to bring back some baguettes for breakfast. By the time I got back, Rudi had rounded up just about everything of ours for the trip. As you can imagine, we had collected a lot of stuff in Paris- but we couldn’t take them with us. No room on the scooter! A couple of things I mailed to my parents. I think Rudi sent some stuff to Wuesterheide.

“What did you say the name of your girl friend was?” Toby asked Rudi as we munched on the baguettes and cheese.
“I didn’t “ Rudi said.
“Well what is it?” I said.
“Why do you want to know?” Rudi answered.
That was strange, I thought. It’s not that Toby or me were going to steal the girl away
from him.
“Well, if you don’t want to tell us, that? ??s O.K. too” Toby said.
Rudi grudgingly got his wallet and pulled out a picture of a girl, a nice-looking French girl.
“Her name is Genevieve,” He said.

I was beginning to see that some things were very personal with Rudi and he just didn’t think they deserved to be talked about in public. Maybe back in Germany he left a girl behind and he felt he was being insincere. Or maybe a guy’s love life wasn’t proper to talk about back in Wuesterheide. During the trip I learned later that his love life wasn’t the only thing he chose not to talk about.
I’m pretty good at getting information out of people. Rudi didn’t have to be forced to ‘spill all’ -- but he wasn’t someone to jibber jabber all the time. That would be annoying. And he wasn’t anyone for just shootin’ the breeze, that sort of thing.
I didn’t press the point, and Toby didn’t care anyway. Rudi started whistling. I guess it was a way of his saying that the case was closed.

Toby got the point too and said, “Well, I must say, you guys have spent a worthwhile three days in Paris! Most tourists spend a couple of weeks and half a bankroll and don’t experience a fraction of what you guys have.”

“Rudi acknowledged Toby’s comment with a slight smile as he put our sleeping bags under one arm and his suitcase under the other. I was learning that a slight smile from Rudi meant approval.

“Here, let me help you with that stuff.” Toby accompanied us down to the patio where we loaded up the scooter. “I’m going to miss you guys,” He said kicking the rear tire of the Vespa.
“We’ll see each other again,” I said confidently.
“See you later, Toby, and thank you!” Rudi said as he shook hands with him.
Toby was still waving when I looked back.

We headed out into the lively Paris afternoon, this crazy Paris that was saying, “Don’t go!” and then on the other hand, “Get the hell outta here!” We had tasted Paris and wondered if we would ever return. It didn’t matter. The world was waiting for us; we knew it. There was more on the platter to enjoy, and we were anticipating it.

In a half hour, we were breathing gulps of the French countryside air as the skyline of Paris behind us disappeared out of sight. Next, -- the skylines of Lyon! Barcelona! ! Madrid! Lisbon! Tangier! Casablanca! --- they all awaited us.

The landscape of rural France stretched out. It looked much like the land between Belgium and Paris -- rolling hills, well-kept farms, honey wagons (manure spreaders) horse drawn wagons full of hay, narrow tree-lined roads, vineyards on hillsides facing south. We were headed south toward the Mediterranean shoreline, and then west to Spain and Portugal. Our music supported us but also other things like washing restaurant windows, painting signs, sketching portraits, working on farms.

We did anything that would get us into homes of people and getting to know them. Well, I did anyway. Rudi was more interested in dinner and a dry bed at night and performing his songs. He was really good at singing his songs. Back in Paris, one of Toby’ friends had invited us to visit a music academy for singers. Rudi could’ve given any of those students at the music academy a run for their money. Rudi was really an untrained opera singer at heart. He had the right voice. It just needed some polish.

On the other hand I was the opposite in many ways. I enjoyed singing harmony to Rudi’s songs if it meant it would allow us to introduce ourselves to the people. Sure, music is universal. Never fails. We figured that out. And I think we would have been only half as successful on our trip if we didn’t have our guitars.

We never knew what we were going to get into when we stopped at a farm in early evening before the sun went down. Ever ybody’s a stranger until you get to know them. Even the roughest-looking peasants wouldn’t shoot at a couple of foreign strangers who had nothing more than guitars as their weapons.

I told that to an American guy in Paris and he said, “Wait a minute. That may be true in Europe but what are you gonna do in Morocco with the A-Rabs or in Black Africa? They might have never seen a guitar before and they might think it’s a club or something and come at you with sabers and stuff.”

Well, he had me there. I had no answer to that. But he was on of those guys you meet all the time on a trip like this. They want to discourage you. They don’t mean anything by it, they’re just envious. They’re just mad as hell that they see some guy doing something they wish they could be doing. They start building up scary scenarios and possible tragic evens for you. Sometimes it makes me mad, but then if I put myself in their place, say back in Baltimore. I wouldn’t be surprised that I’d do the same thing myself. I’d be so jealous.

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