My first cigarette
kees vanderheyden (keesv@sympatico.ca)
Sat, 15 Mar 1997 13:48:24 -0500
Dear Tom,
Here is my 4th story.
€€ ³Ruski, Ruski! Papirossa!² €€
During the most strained hours of the war, one fine
morning in the summer of 1944, my friend Leo and I came upon a
group of allied soldiers, who would become our friends and
accomplices. Dad had told me that the Allies would be coming to
liberate us. For him this meant, of course, the Americans, Canadians
and Brits. For me they were this group of mysterious big men who
came from far away.
Early that morning, slow dusty wagons drawn by big bulky horses
deposited a few meters from our house some thirty tall, tanned
men, who spoke a strange language which certainly wasn¹t German.
They smiled broadly at Leo and me - ah! such smiles! They had
black eyes and almost all of them had one or more golden teeth
which shone like little yellow suns. There was even one who had
his whole mouth in gold and the effect was magical.
It became clear that they were prisoners. Germand soldiers, rifles
on their shoulders, watched them as they dug nice round, deep
holes along the shoulder of the main road which led to the village.
These holes would be used during the final battle against the allies,
providing shelter to the German soldiers and their machine guns.
Needless to say Leo and I aligned ourselves on the side of the
prisoners as we too were at the mercy of the Nazis, although we
couldn¹t do much for these dark men, beyond friendly gestures - a
subtle hand movement, the wink of an eye. In return, their teeth
sparkled.
At first we watched the prisoners silently as they manned their
big shovels or while they smoked a cigarette during their short
breaks. They winked at us, calling their gutteral hellos from
another world. From where did these men with the brown skin
come, looking like the Tartar huzzars of whom we had seen
pictures in our school books? They must certainly be rich to have
gold teeth.
Discretely Leo and I drew near our accomplices and one morning
managed to say a few words to them. ³Hello! Where do you come
from?² The men flashed us beautiful golden smiles but shrugged
their shoulders with an air of incomprehension. They only got the
odd word of Dutch and we didn¹t understand the language they
spoke. I pointed my finger toward my chest.²I¹m Dutch! Dutch!²
They laughed heartily and one of them pointed his finger towards
the group. ³Ruski! Ruski!² This foreign word closely ressembles the
Dutch word for Russian (Rus). Then, of course, they were Russians,
Russian prisoners far from their families, in the process of digging
holes for their ennemies.
During a break, one of them offered me a cigarette. ³Papirossa,
papirossa!² Surely, this meant cigarette in Russian. I was proud to
have received such a manly gift from a secret friend even if I was
not old enough to smoke. ³Ruski, Thank you very much!² His gold
teeth shone in a dazzling smile.
The only cigarettes Leo and I were familiar with were those we
made using rolled newspaper stuffed with linden tree flowers and
which made us sick. One has to say that Russian cigarettes were not
much better. The tobacco was black and tasted acrid. Although the
heavy smoke choked us, we bravely finished to the end. It made
us feel closer to our prisoner friends and as strong as they were.
Every morning, we looked for our allies and the game unfolded
along the road in between the strokes of their shovels. ³Good
Morning, Ruski!² Emboldened we now sought out the black
cigarettes, ³Ruski, Ruski. Papirossa!² and puffed the smoke of
friendship at the bottom of the garden of Leo¹s house.
When the Germans finally left in full disarray at the beginning of
October, our Russian friends disappeared too. When would they be
able to go home to their country? Will we see them again one day
when the Germans are defeated and peace comes at last ? Our
morning now seemed empty and sad.
During the torments of the liberation by our friends the Canadians
and Brits several weeks later, and then during the long months
which ensued before the war was truly ended in May 1945, we
largely forgot our Russian friends and their ³papirossa². The
memory of the taste of their black cigarettes was erased by our
linden cigarettes which we valiantly smoked to help us grow
bigger.
Normal life resumed its course. One began to repair the mess and
damage from the bombs. School, alas, reopened its doors. We ate
our fill again. No longer did we see fighter planes or bombers in
the sky. The warning sirens were silenced. Canadian soldiers were
still amongst us and we truly liked them. They had great
chocolate! They were billetted all over the place and took part in all
our lives.
It was a great surprise that happened one lovely noon in the
summer of 1945, just before summer vacation. I was returning
home from the village school with my pal Leo and some other
friends. We passed in front of the terrace of a little tavern on the
Kerkstraat (Church Street) which we knew well. There often were a
few of ³our Canadians² there, having a glass of something, and
indeed, a group of Canadian soldiers sat at the table drinking beer.
But this time, they were in the company of some type of soldiers
we had never seen, a very chic sort. These were surely not
Canadians. Their uniforms were trimmed with red and gold braid,
they wore large round caps as big as soup plates, stretched tight as
a drum skin. Their complexion was dark, they spoke loudly and
had big warm smiles. More curious than courageous, we didn¹t have
the nerve to go close to look at them. Who were these strangers?
I learned several days later that these elegant, smiling men were
Russian prisoners who had been forced to work for the German at
Oisterwijk. Once liberated they had come to revisit us and
celebrate a bit. I bit my nails. How foolish it was to have missed
them. Perhaps, they were our friends with their papirossa. Surely
they¹ll go home now. The holes they had dug are still there, of no
more use to anyone.
Kees Vanderheyden
Stories from the book ³La guerre dans ma cour²
Éditions du Boréal, Montréal
Mont-Saint-Hilaire, March 15th 1997.
Sent to : Memories@Maelstrom UK