Danny, Linguist par excellence (???)
When we settled at GK for the last two years of the tour, I was fresh from my studies at Butzweilerhof, and heartened by my "O" Level in German. So I decided to keep up the good work without interruption. Two possibilities opened to me. That excellent periodical, "Exchange & Mart" (available from NAAFI), threw up a Linguaphone German, the property of a Bank Manager, no less. He was offering it, mint condition, for £10 or so plus P&P.
I took a chance on it. It arrived with the B/M's hope that I would find it very useful in my posting (for of course it was addressed to a BFPO in Germany). It is about two feet from me as I write: it is one of those possessions that I'll never lose (also the 6-inch ruler from my school Geometry Set - and that's going back some). It was as described; the books had never been opened, the discs (78s, shellac) unscratched, perfect. Off we went: ("Hier sind wir in DeutchLand - in DeutchLand spricht man Deutche....usw"). I got my moneysworth out of it.
This was useful, but there was a far better idea coming. The RAF couldn't afford to provide us with a RC Chaplain (although GK had a CE one on site). But they'd found an excellent substitute. Pater Gregor Eyles hailed originally from Ulm (Bavaria). He was a Franciscan friar (or to be exact, a "Cappuchiner") - so called on account of the big cowl atop the brown habits they wore - (the Capuchin monkey and your "cappuchino" from Starbucks are so named as the colour is supposed to be the same [Wiki]).
His monastery was just over the Dutch border at Waterschleyde. Originally they had been in Germany, but it seems that in the late nineteenth century they'd got up Bismarck's nose and he'd thrown the Order out of Prussia (as it then was). They'd set up over the border in Holland temporarily, with the intention of moving back when things got better. But: "Rein ne dure que le provisoire" (Nothing lasts like the temporary) - they were there yet.
Pater Gregor must have been on some sort of retainer from the RAF for his services to us (doing this sort of thing was right up a Franciscan's street: it was not an "enclosed" Order). A very friendly, white haired old monk, 60+ at a guess, he spoke faultless English (why, oh why, didn't we ever ask how he learned it ?) He filled the Chaplain gap perfectly. I think the RAF sent over a car every Sunday morning to pick him up. He often had lunch with us on Sundays, and hearing of my ambition to improve my German conversational skills, made a proposal.
How would it be if I were to go over to Waterschleyde one evening a week, and spend a couple of hours with the friars ? We might both learn a lot from it. Naturally, they'd want no money for this. If I liked the idea, he'd see if he could clear it with his Abt. I did and he could (I suspect the Abt , a wise old bird, shrewdly reckoned that his friars would learn far more English than I ever would German). We closed on the deal, choosing Mondays (or another day if my watches conflicted).
Pater Gregor was one jump ahead of his Abbot. He always picked as my interlocutor one who knew no word of English, so that it would be "sink or swim" for me. Usually it was Pater Rolf, a huge jovial bear of a man who genuinely didn't have a scrap of English. He was the very embodiment of Friar Tuck (he seems to be a historical character, by the way, who started as a Cistercian [white habit] at Fountains Abbey (Ripon), got kicked out for insubordination, [Wiki] and is always depicted in literature (with Robin Hood), in the brown of a Franciscan, although I don't think there is any evidence that he joined the Order).
Of course, I always took a dictionary with me for when I got stuck. But there was a quicker, easier way. Why not use the seven years' hard labour I'd had at school, learning Latin ? (e.g., once I was lost for "law", gave Rolf "lex, legis", he came straight back with "gesetz") Simple, and much easier than hunting around in my old dictionary, which was still in "black-letter" Gothic script. It worked like a charm.
My masterpiece came near the end of these instructional visits (I can't remember how long I kept it up). Fr Rolf told me that the legend of St.Swithun and the 40 days of rain is not generally known in Germany (at least he'd not heard it) : I had to explain the whole story as best I could: how the saintly monk Swithun died in his monastery, having humbly renounced his privilege of burial under the flags of the church, but insisting on a simple grave just outside the walls (where the "sweet rain of heaven" could fall on him from the eaves).
A devotion sprang up to Swithun, miracles were attributed to him, and after a hundred years or so, he was put up for canonisation. Rome put it on the back burner and thought about it for another century or two, then gave the nod. So now his Order (whoever they were) had a Saint on their hands: it was most unseemly that he should lie outside in the cold and the rain instead of behind the High Altar (as is Cuthbert in Durham). They decided to dig him up and bring him in where he belonged.
Doch der Heilige wollte nicht. He was quite comfortable where he was, thank you all the same. So he arranged matters, so that when they got down a foot, a torrent of rain fell and the spoil fell back in. Back at Square One, they waited till it stopped raining, then had another go. Same thing. It does not seem to have occurred to the monks to shore up the hole properly, but they cannot have been very bright anyway, for Swithun had to keep "raining them off" for 40 consecutive days until they got the message and left him alone.
So much for the sacred, now a profane small triumph. Mrs D. took it into her head to bake her own bread. Her mother had always done so, and had passed on the skill to her daughter. All the ingredients could be got from the NAAFI except the yeast (héfe). I was despatched to find some by "local-purchase".
Reckoning that it would be the best bet, I found a "Tante-Emma laden", stated my business and paid for the yeast (only a few pfennige for a few grammes). But this Tante-Emma was curious. "Entschuldigen Sie. mein Herr", she said, "but what nationality are you ?" She knew from my accent that I wasn't German, of course, but did not identify me as British. Some sort of Dutch - Flemish perhaps ?
I chalked one up (and the bread was delicious !)
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C,
Say not the Struggle naught Availeth.