My Story

#18

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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

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.

“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.

Oh, well. That always helped me to understand why some farmers we met along the way were so distrustful, it seemed, of strangers, especially since there were German Gestapo from the Vichy government all around here just ten years ago.

Madame Rouge was bustling around the kitchen stove and Marie was helping out by setting the dinner table.
Madame Rouge spun around and talking over her shoulder said, “Monsieur should be here any minute. He’s gone to Cravant to pick up some feed.”
“Tell us, Rudi, tell us,” Marie said. “Tell us what you did when you left to go to India. I went out on the road when you left and watched you and your bicycle disappear over Grumiere Hill. How’d you ever get to India?”
Rudi and I, up to this point, really hadn’t much time to sit and talk about ourselves with each other so this was a good time for me to listen. I grabbed a stool and put my stocking feet up on a log pile near the kitchen stove and sat back with my hot grog. I looked around the large kitchen, which also served as a living room, dining room, and pantry. Its damp tiled floor glistened in the light from a lone electric light bulb that hung down from the ceiling in the center of the room, like the solitary lamp of a cozy general store. A washbasin with one faucet had a miniature grandfather clock on the wall above it that had stopped at 11:22. Beside the clock was a high shelf with old unopened cans of what looked like beans, corn and peas. On a clothes rack below was a collection of wet raincoats that were dripping rainwater into a little puddle on the tile floor.
Madame Rouge was bustling away. She would step from a cutting board of onions, peppers, and carrots over to the woodstove to peek into the steaming pots. She’d slide them from one hot spot to another or off the hot spots depending how she wanted them simmering, boiling, or whatever.
Marie sat with her mouth half open, enthralled at Rudi’s exploits on his way to India. The small door at the far side of the kitchen opened and Monsieur Kelewski entered with his wife, Henrietta, and ten-month-old daughter, Janha.
“Stanislav!” Rudi stood up and shouted; interrupting the story of his travels and went over to greet the family.
“You’re back!” Monsieur Kelewski greeted Rudi. “You said you’d come back. He was a Pole who had emigrated to France after the war, and he and his wife were employed as farm hands on the Rouge farm.
“Did you go all the way around the world on your bicycle? Have I lost that 100 francs? He had a million questions to ask Rudi.
“No, but you’re just in time. Rudi was just starting to tell us about his travels to India, and how he met his American friend,” Madame Rouge interrupted.
“American”?” Monsieur Kelewski said.” Everyone looked at me.
“Oh, I almost forgot him; this is my new riding partner, Rohn. We met in Rotterdam. He plays the guitar too.” Rudi said.
Monsieur Kelewski got up and walked over and shook my hand. “Don’t get up,” he saw my comfortable position, “Pleased to meet you. He slightly bowed and returned to the doorway.
“Sit down,” Madame Rouge said, waving her hand to the Kelewskis.
He returned to the other side of the room where he put his daughter on his lap and Madame Kelewski, who looked to be not more than 20 years old, went to the stove to see how she could help with the meal as she usually did this time of the day.
They all turned their attention to Rudi who continued on his story. And I basked in the warm heat of the stove. Just then the back door flung open. “There he is!” Madame Rouge said.
Monsieur Rouge was a tall friendly-looking man, muscular, and not one you would care to get in a wrestling match with. He also looked like he wasn’t anyone to take any unnecessary monkey business. He had thick black hair that fell down over his face on the left side of his weathered forehead. The sound of the beating torrent on the outdoors was no competition for his thundering voice when he greeted us. He looked at me first. I could see question marks flying out of his ears, then he looked over at Rudi, placed two feet square apart on the floor and shouted, “Rudi!” and went quickly over to him and gave him a slap on the shoulder that nearly knocked Rudi down. Rudi stood firm.
”Hello Rudi!” He gave him a handshake and the usual couple of kisses on the cheeks. Marie helped him remove his slicker and Monsieur Kelewski ran over and swiftly banged the door behind him, to bar the noisy tempest outside from entering our friendly gathering.
“This is Rohn, and we’re heading off to Africa.” Rudi introduced me.
\ “Africa?” He smiled. It was a broad one with lots of teeth. “How long can you stay?” He grunted, struggling to take off his slippery barn boots.
“Just for the weekend,” Rudi replied. Got any work for us to do?”
“Always got that, my boy!” He chuckled to think Rudi would ask him that. He motioned for Monsieur Kelewski to fetch a bottle of wine. He twirled his finger and pointed to a different shelf and Monsieur Kelewski winked and reached for a smaller special bottle on a lower shelf. I caught a smile on Kelewski’s face.
Marie handed us each a tiny wine glass while Monsieur Rouge poured a small portion for each of us in the room. “Well, here’s to you!!” He looked at me. “Isn’t that what they say in America?” He was smiling.
“Yes sir!” I beamed as I sipped the stuff that was strong like brandy. He called it Calvados. Later he told me it was made from apple cider.
“So, Rudi, my boy, you’re off in a different direction this time?” Last time I talked with you, you were headed off to India. What happened? You lose your nerve?”
Rudi stiffened his spine. “No Monsieur Rouge, I lost my bicycle!”
“What? Where? Not here in France?”
“No, in India!”
“A Ha, then you did get to India, and on that bicycle of yours. You lost that gem of a bike. What a pity!”
“Yes, it took me six months after I saw you. And I’ve seen a lot of things since then,”
“Dinner’s ready!” Madame Rouge interrupted; giving the signal that started a scramble to the table.
In France, even on the poorest farms, a dinner consisting of five or six courses isn’t considered a point of etiquette, it’s just custom. You might find that napkins, extra silver, that that sort of things are lacking, but the recipes and preparations are always genuinely French. As we sat at the long table the men on the right and the women on the left, we took turns dipping out potato soup from a large porridge bowl in the center. Monsieur Rouge passed a large, long loaf of bread around and each of us tore off a chunk to our liking. The soup finished, we poured ourselves wine from the litre bottles at either end of the table, while Madame Rouge replaced the empty porridge bowl with asparagus. It was freshly cooked, and with our fingers we dipped them into a sauce of oil and vinegar.
“Better eat everything!” said Madame Rouge, “We don’t switch the plates!” and she served me a heaping helping of cauliflower and spinach.
“At my house, we don’t drink wine with the meal,” I said as Monsieur Rouge was filling my glass again.
“What do you drink then? He asked.
“Water.”
“Water?” said Monsieur Kelewski and they all stopped for a moment. “What? It has no taste.”
“It certainly doesn’t!” I agreed as I raised my glass and took an approving sip of the local Burgundy wine.
The next course was delicious meat, and I told Madame Rouge that I enjoyed French cooking—on the farms especially, where I could concentrate more on the cooking and less on the complicated etiquette that sometimes accompanies it in restaurants. “I especially like this meat. What is it? I inquired.
“Horse meat,” she replied. I found it hard to finish our conversation. But I dutifully ate the rest of the portion on my plate.

A change of wine came after a salad, then cheese and grapes for dessert.
When the meal was over, we retired to the other side of the room. “Still got that guitar of yours?” Monsieur Rouge asked.
“Sure do!” Rudi said and I volunteered to go out to the shed to get our guitars. “Here, take this blanket, it’s wet out there.” She said.
Monsieur Rouge dropped down in his favorite chair, “Play me that song, Rudi! and we can all join in.”
Rudi knew which one he meant, Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, and I joined in with the harmony.
“You’re getting better, Rudi”’ He said and the others agreed.
“Tell us more about your trip, Rudi,” Monsieur Rouge said after Rudi sang a Greek folk tune. “Did you get to Greece?”
Rudi mumbled, “I almost never even got there. But yes, I did.”
“How’s that?” Monsieur Rouge said, and the others looked up from their kitchen work to listen.
“Well it all began when I checked out of Yugoslavia and passed through a no-man’s land on the Greek border.”
“What’s that?” Marie asked.
“It’s the place between the country you’re leaving the place you’re going into. It’s usually a couple hundred meters but it can be two or three kilometers.
Just then the kitchen door blew open. The wind had come up outside and you could hear it whistling out in the farmyard. The sun had gone down and we saw a flash of lightening and a crash of thunder. It was the start of the summer storm season. By everyone’s demeanor it looked like it was nothing to worry about. Monsieur Kelewski got up and gave the door a healthy shut. Rudi continued on his tale about his escapades at the Greek border.

NEXT:

Rudi is prevented from entering Greece