 asanova Restaurant Book: Denise's Story
Chapter 5
We were in heaven. Even though our house had no doors, two German soldiers were buried in our garden, and an abandoned American tank was parked across the road, we were in heaven. It was so wonderful to be alive; we appreciated even the smallest things. Brass tank shell casings were polished bright and transformed into vases filled with pussy willows. Helmets removed from dead GIs became flower pots on the door steps. We had soup to eat and that soft American bread, our father was home, and our family was together and safe.
We furnished the house with whatever we could find. A few broken pieces of our furniture were still in the house, but everyone's belongings were scattered all over the village. During war, people just take what they need to survive. Soldiers and civilians moved around furniture and household goods from one house to another, wherever they were needed.
We had a couple of chests - one drawer was missing and other was broken. Of course, our antique dining room set was gone, and we didn't have a couch or any place comfortable to sit. Our father nailed wood from the remains of our piano over a window to keep out the cold, and the Red Cross gave us mattresses so we didn't have to sleep on the floor. I still remember my mattress with its blue and white flowers printed on the fabric. It was as hard as a rock, but I was glad to have it. We covered ourselves with blankets the soldiers had left behind - gray ones from the German army, and dark green wool ones from the Americans, which we preferred. The German army blankets were not very warm; they were just cotton.
One day, I found a small pitcher in the drainage ditch. It was caked with mud, inside and out. I cleaned it up and took it to my mother. "Keep that," she said, "It's worth something because it's crystal." I still have that pitcher. Today, it is in the china cabinet in my living room.
* * *
Soon after we returned to Ligneuville, the American army moved out and everyone started trying to figure out how to get back on their feet. Everyone had to start from scratch. My Uncle Nicolas re-opened his bakery, so people could have bread and pies again. The shoemaker started back to work so we could get our shoes repaired. But our father did not return to blacksmithing. There were few horses left, and the farmers preferred to plow the fields with abandoned US army jeeps, white stars still painted on the hoods. The war had brought an end to his livelihood.
He and my mother had to find a new way to earn a living. My mother noticed that Ligneuville was full of hungry men and with no place to buy a hot meal or a cool drink. Men from northern Belgium - where they speak Dutch and wear wooden shoes - had arrived in the village to repair the phone lines. They were hardworking guys, making a lot of money, and they were big drinkers. They were sleeping wherever they could find a place, usually in the barns and stables, and at night when they finished their work, there was no place for them to eat or drink a beer.
This was the humble beginning of our future café career. Our father went to Malmedy and came back with a barrel of beer and a few bottles of whiskey, and my mother transformed our front room into a simple bar. It was filled every evening with rowdy men, eating, drinking and playing cards with nothing but time on their hands until time to go to work the next morning. Now and then, they would get drunk and fight, removing their wooden shoes from their feet and using them like boxing gloves! Rita, Gilbert and I would see them, but we didn't think much about it. We had accepted so much for so many years, that something new was not shocking to us. It was no big deal to see a couple of drunks; we had seen much worse.
After a few weeks, the telephone men moved on to the next village, and another group of men finally arrived to carry off the dead. By this time, the early spring days were growing warmer and the bodies were beginning to thaw. Of course no one wanted this horrible job, so convicts from the Belgium jails were offered a trade - they would be released from jail early if they worked on the clean-up crew. Soldiers from the Belgium army drove the trucks and the convicts tossed the bodies in the back.
Rita watched as they dug up the two German soldiers from our vegetable garden. She said one of the dead soldiers was buried with the kit that held his food. It had a kitchen towel lying across the top, covering a dried sausage that was supposed to be his dinner. Later, my mother planted a flower garden in the spot that was their temporary grave.
German, American and civilian bodies were all tossed in the truck together and hauled to the cemeteries outside of town. One load would be taken to the American cemetery, another to the German, regardless of the nationality of the bodies. The work was so gruesome that the convicts were only required to work two hours a day - from 5 until 7 in the morning - for five days a week. They received shots each day to ward off infection from the decaying bodies.
Needless to say, living conditions for all of us were unsanitary during this period. I developed a terrible skin disease. My whole body was covered in scabs like a crust. I itched constantly and could hardly move my fingers and toes. My mother took me to the American hospital in Malmedy, and the nurse stripped off all my clothes. She dabbed my skin with a pink lotion that hardened as it dried. I felt like a mummy! It was worse than the itch! That night my mother sponged me off, and I had to return the next day to have the treatment repeated. After a week or so, it finally cleared up. That was my first experience with calamine lotion.
It took months to clean up the thousands of dead in the Ardennes. On the weekends, the Belgium soldiers and their trucks were sitting idle. My Uncle Nicolas saw his own opportunity to make money. West of Ligneuville, there were farmers with cows that had survived the war. These farmers had more butter than they could use, and were glad to trade their butter for my uncle's bread. Uncle Nicolas collected butter until he had hundreds of pounds in storage. Then he made a deal with the Belgium soldiers to drive the butter into Brussels on the weekends where it could be sold on the black market for a ridiculously high price. The soldiers and my uncle made some extra cash, and the farmers had bread for their families. The soldiers would bring their profits to our house in the evening for a shot of whiskey or a glass of beer. Everyone was pleased.
* * *
My mother was worried about her brothers who had fought in Russia for the German army. In May, she sent Gilbert to ride his bike across the German border to check on her family in Pronsfeld. I'm sure she had no idea how dangerous this trip was for him. Even though the shooting and bombing were over, this area of Germany was held by the French, and travel was restricted due to the many mines and grenades that had been left behind. Within the village, Ligneuville had been de-mined before we came home from the orphanage, but there were signs with skulls and cross-bones warning us to stay out of the surrounding woods and fields where the mines were still active. Gilbert headed off on his bike through the woods to avoid being stopped by soldiers. It took him several days to reach our uncle's house across the border in Germany, about 36 miles away.
Fortunately, he returned safely to Ligneuville, but his news was sad. My mother's favorite brother, Nicolaus Gilles, had returned home from fighting with the German army on the Russian front. Since he had been a de-miner for the German army, his neighbor asked if he would check their yard for mines so that the children could once again play outside. Nicolaus was glad to help, and asked everyone to stay inside the house while he worked. He hit a booby trap and set off a mine. His body was blown apart, into a thousand pieces.
Many people - especially children -- were killed or maimed by abandoned mines during the years following the war. They would stumble on the trip-wire for a mine, or find a live grenade in the rubble and try to take it apart. It was not unusual to see a child missing an arm or leg, or hear that a neighborhood child had died. It could have happened to us too, but we were lucky.
Rita, Gilbert and I were constantly exploring, looking for things that our family could use. Rita climbed in an abandoned tank and brought out a log to burn in our fireplace. When she showed what she'd found to our father, he said, "Rita, that's not firewood, that was a man who was burned. She dropped it, and the remains shattered.
Gilbert and his friends were fascinated with the weapons that were left behind by the Germans and Americans. They explored every inch of the tanks, figuring out how to aim the cannon, making it go up and down, left and right. They found a rifle that was so heavy it took both of them to hold it steady while they loaded it with bullets that were lying around. It's a wonder they didn't accidentally shoot someone - or themselves.
I was very daring too. I would try anything. Even if my father told me not to do something, I would try it anyway. The trees in the village were tangled with heavy electric cables that had been cut during the war. The lines were dead; no electricity was running through them, but some cables were caught in very tall trees. I climbed the cables, pretending I was a circus performer, as high as I could, probably 50 feet into the air. Far below me on the ground, my friends held the end of the cable and pulled it across the street, until the cable I was holding was diagonal, and then they turned the cable loose. I swung through the air -- until I hit the tree truck. I performed this trick over and over. I felt successful when my shoes caught the trunk, stopping me gracefully. Unfortunately, most of the time I slammed into the tree with my back. Still, I loved these daring performances.
By fall, school started back again. Our house was on top of a hill across the river from the school. Unfortunately, the bridge had been blown up during the war. Our father took us down to the river and showed us how to cross. First, we climbed huge ladders down the riverbank, then carefully walked across the river on wide boards until we reached the other side, where we climbed up another ladder to the street. It was months before the bridge was rebuilt, so everyday, the children from our side of the river would meet and cross over together, holding hands so that if one person slipped, the others would hang on tight. We learned how to look out for each other and ourselves. These things you can't learn from a book. These things you have to live.
I was in the fourth grade that year, and it was very difficult for me and the other children in my class. Since I began school during the German occupation, all my previous classes had been taught in German. Now everything was French - no German at all. I remember learning the alphabet by embroidering the letters and pronouncing the letters over and over aloud in French. It was very hard not to use the German pronunciation, but eventually I managed.
By this time, our lives had settled into a routine. The clean-up was over, and with extra money our parents had earned, my father was able to repair our house. Furniture, windows and doors were replaced; however, our new front door was plain wood, not grand like the handmade iron door. The hotel reopened and visitors were beginning to return to our village. Many of these were people from the western parts of Belgium where the war damage was minimal. They were curious to see how people in the battle-torn area were recovering from the war.
My mother decided that we could rent two of our bedrooms to visitors who would stay a week or two at a time. Our father installed running water in two of the upstairs bedrooms, quite a luxury at the time. My mother decorated the rooms and soon we had our first guests. My mother prepared their meals and served the guests in the dining room; they never ate with our family. In the afternoons, she made her special waffles to go with their afternoon tea. Eventually, word got around that Mm. Georis made wonderful waffles that stay fresh for two or three days. People would come to our house to buy them. My mother would dip some of the waffles so they were completely covered in chocolate. She set them aside carefully to dry so that they didn't have any scratches or marks. When the chocolate was hard, we would wrap two waffles together in clear cellophane and they were ready to sell.
By the following year, my parents started selling goods at the weekly street markets. They did not have much money at first, so they started with small items like shoelaces and buttons. As their business expanded, they traveled to markets in surrounding villages and expanded their inventory to include a wide variety of linens, kitchen towels, sheets and aprons. After the war's destruction, all household goods were in high demand in the villages.
Our father bought a used truck that started with a hand-crank. Sometimes it would start right up, other times it wouldn't start at all. Our parents would load the truck at 4 or 5 in the morning, while it was still dark, and return home in the evenings. My mother would make a simple dinner, maybe one of our favorites like eggs in a nightgown -- boiled eggs covered with a tomato-tinted white sauce, with a few chopped chives on top and a biscuit on the side. Our food was simple then. Fresh meat was expensive and hard to get. Eggs were cheap and good for us, so we ate a lot of those, along with soup and food that would keep well, like sauerkraut.
Clothes were still in short supply. Fortunately, it was fashionable at our school for the girls to wear American army boots that had been collected from the dead soldiers. We tried to find the smallest sizes, and wear them with two or three pairs of socks. We were so proud of these, even if we only had two left shoes.
Once a month, the Red Cross brought in truckloads of clothes that had been donated by Americans. The clothes were spread out on huge tables and each family could select two items per member. My mother was always working, so she sent Rita and me to pick out clothes for our family. We just went crazy when we saw all those clothes! I don't remember if it was my idea or Rita's, but I remember picking out a blue frilly dress, saying that it would be for my baby sister. Of course, we didn't have a sister, but we had always wished that Walter had been born a girl. Since Walter was only two then, he didn't complain when we put the dress on him, complete with a nylon petticoat. Our mother was furious when she saw what we'd done. " We need real clothes! Not toys! " she said. Still, she took a picture of Walter in his costume, sitting in his stroller.
You would have thought I would have learned my lesson -- and nearly all the time we selected sensible clothes -- but I just couldn't resist picking out something just for fun now and then. Once instead of getting what I really needed -- a sweater and skirt for school -- I picked out pink satin ballet slippers. Another time I came home with a woman's silk blouse with tasseled epaulets on the shoulders. But my favorite Red Cross discovery was a pair of high-heeled shoes - bright red! Even when I was little, I would place rocks all around the garden and walk from one to the other, with my heels landing on the rocks, pretending that I was walking on high heels. I've always loved wearing high heels. I still do.
* * *
After the war, Rita decided not to return to school. When the phone lines were repaired, she got a job as a switchboard operator in Malmedy. She rode her new blue bicycle the six miles to work everyday. This was common; most people in our village began work at the age or 15 or 16 and lived at home until they were married.
Gilbert also grew up quickly. In many ways, he became more of a father to us than our real father. Since our parents were relaxed in their discipline, Gilbert was the one who made sure that we younger children behaved. We called him "Guerilla" because of the way he bossed us around. Gilbert also helped support the family financially. He played his accordion in a local band, and brought home his tips each night, laying them on my mother's bedside table. He also helped our parents with their growing street market business.
In 1947, when Gilbert turned 16, my mother decided that he was ready for more responsibility. She was ready to expand her business, and wanted to see if they could run a successful grocery store in Malmedy. My mother and Gilbert found a tiny store for rent in the town. She stayed with him for one week, helping him make connections with wholesale suppliers. After that, Gilbert managed the store on his own. The business grew quickly because Gilbert didn't wait for customers to find him. He would go from house to house taking grocery orders, and would deliver the items to his customers' homes the next day.
At this time, I was only twelve and still in school. Since my mother was always working, we had a young woman living with us who helped with Gaston and Walter. It was so good to finally see Gaston running and laughing, and not being scared all the time. And Walter! By the time he could walk, he was into everything. He was afraid of nothing, but of course, unlike Gaston, Walter did not spend his early years with bombs going off all around him.
Walter's fearlessness almost killed him. When he was two, Walter and Gaston were playing in the kitchen. Their babysitter, Mia, was outside flirting with the mailman. Gaston watched helplessly while Walter climbed on the kitchen counter and onto the narrow ledge outside the window. He begged Walter to come down, but Walter was strong-willed even then, and stood with his palm on the outside of the window pane, looking out into our backyard. Uncle Nicolas was working on his back terrace where he could see Walter standing in the window. He rushed to our house, but arrived too late. Walter fell onto the cellar steps below the kitchen window. The cement steps were edged in iron, and his face was deeply cut and his jaw broken. A neighbor drove Uncle Nicolas and Walter to the hospital in Malmedy. The doctors did not expect that Walter would keep his eye, but fortunately he survived with only a scar down the side of his chin.
After that, my parents kept a close eye on Walter, but his fall did not slow him down. My father would say, "We have to keep an eye on Walter because he's already jumped out the window once! What is he going to do next?" One evening when Gaston and Walter were laughing and jumping on their bed, my parents sent me upstairs to quiet them. I went into their room and showed them a picture of a heart I had drawn on a slip of paper. "Do you know what this is?" I asked.
"Yes," Walter answered, "It's a heart."
"Do you know where your heart is?" I asked.
"It's here," said Gaston, pointing to his chest.
"Do you know that your heart hangs on one tiny piece of skin? If you jump and yell, your heart loosens up and you die!" I said. That worked. For two days, they stepped carefully around the house, making hardly a sound.
* * *
My mother taught me basic cooking so that I could prepare meals for Walter and Gaston while she and my father were working. I learned to roast chicken, make two or three types of soup, cook vegetables, and prepare a béchamel sauce. I loved to make one-pot meals, like split pea soup with ham, potatoes and carrots. With a piece of dark bread, that made a whole meal.
Later that year, my parents sent me to a Catholic girl's school in a nearby village for two years. The school was strict; I was not allowed to come home, except during the summer and for Easter and Christmas holiday. I loved the school because everyday was the same. I liked the discipline and the order. After the turmoil of the war, it felt good to have an orderly life.
I returned to live with my parents in Ligneuville in 1949, a few months before my family moved to Malmedy. My mother decided that the little store that Gilbert ran should be moved to a larger space in the town square. My parents rented a store on the main square and with an apartment large enough for our family.
Our move from the little village of Ligneuville to the larger town of Malmedy opened up a whole new world for us, but we were well prepared. During our years in Ligneuville, our mother taught us much. Through her actions, she showed us how to be honest, be correct, be a good parent, have a good heart, and work hard. Those were the lessons I would never forget.
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