Kante By John Ritchie
I met Gunther in October, 1944. I was living in Kent at the time, near Westerham and not far from Biggin Hill. British and American forces were fighting their way towards Germany and retaliatory doodlebugs were burbling over our heads on their way to London.
I was digging in the thick chalky soil of my garden when I heard a man’s voice say ‘Excuse me, Miss.’ I raised my left hand to shade my eyes and make my wedding ring more evident. Three men stood at the gate: a policeman, a soldier with a bayonet fixed to his rifle and a dishevelled-looking man in a tatty grey uniform and no hat. It was the lack of a hat as much the ash blonde hair that alerted me. This man was a prisoner of war.
‘Ere you are, miss,’ said the policemen, ‘an ‘Un to ‘elp yer wiv the diggin.’
Gunther rose on his toes and clicked his heels as he nodded to me. In response the soldier dug him in the ribs with his rifle butt and
snarled.‘That’ll do, Eh-dolf.’ For a moment Gunther held my gaze and I saw a weary acceptance in his eyes. He was a prisoner of war and could expect no better.
For a moment we stood, an uneasy little group, either side of my garden gate and then I lifted the latch and stood back.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I said to no one in particular.
‘That would be lovely, Miss’ said the policeman. The soldier nodded. Gunther just scuffed his boot in the dust. He was handcuffed.
I brought the mugs of tea and three stale biscuits on a tray into the garden. The men took a mug each, Gunther waiting till he got a nod from the soldier before accepting his. He nodded and muttered ‘Danke.’
I offered a biscuit to the policeman, who after a show of polite reluctance took it. The soldier much younger and less socially adept
put his mug back on the tray, said ‘Ta,’ grabbed a biscuit and shoved it whole into his mouth before taking back his tea. I took the last biscuit and held it out to Gunther. He looked confused and worried.
The policeman cleared his throat noisily.
‘Er, that’s givin’ comfort to the emennee, Miss. And that's an offence.’
‘Don’t worry, constable,’ I said, ‘there is precious little comfort in a stale biscuit, and I shall be making sure he works it off.’
I pulled my shoulders back and pushed my chest out, only realising when I saw the startled expression on two of the faces, how, in
attempting to appear confident, I had inadvertently given my words a double meaning. If Gunther had noticed anything he at least had the good sense to be studying his tea when the other men looked at him. ‘He can dig out that tree root for a start.’ I added quickly, grateful that I didn’t blush easily.
Gunther was a willing horse, accepting and interpreting my mimed instructions, and working steadily while his guard stood back and
drank endless cups of tea made with endlessly re-used tea-leaves. We all became used to the routine. Gunther greeting me with ‘Guten morgen’ and leaving with ‘Gute nacht’. One day he turned to me and said ‘Ich heisse, Gunther Kante’. Immediately the guard drove him to his knees with a vicious blow of his rifle butt.
‘You fillfee sod,’ he shouted, ‘say you’re sorry, using language like that in front of a lady.’
‘Nein, nein. Es mein name, Gunther Kante.’ Poor Gunther suffered several more brutal blows before I could intervene. The guard called for support and Gunther was taken away. It was several weeks before I saw him again having cajoled and bullied and pulled every string I could lay my hands on to get him back. The evidence of his treatment was clear. His nose had been broken and most of his front teeth were missing. From then on he would bow politely to me when he arrived and when he left but never speak.
By April my garden was in excellent shape and I was sure I would have a superb crop of fruit and vegetables. Things had relaxed a little as it was becoming clear that victory in Europe was not far off. The V1s and 2s had stopped falling and after a while Gunther was even allowed to continue working while his escort noisily emptied his bladder in my tiny white-washed closet. A pleasant relief for both of them from the tedious necessity of handcuffing Guther to the garden stand-pipe.
It was on one of these occasions that I noticed a scrap of folded paper on the ground near where Gunther was working. The guard
literally had his back turned, so I bent down, picked up the paper and put it in the pocket of my apron.
I waited until later, when I was alone, to unfold the paper. Then I stared in amazement at the drawings. Gunther and I were either side of a chimpanzee with a rifle. The drawings were deft and assured; I had been captured as Gunther had first seen me my hand shading my eyes while he looked straight at me his expression gentle and humorous. Underneath my portrait was my name Isobel, though how he knew I have no idea, and underneath his was written Gunther Kante. There was also a drawing of a knife and an arrow pointing to the edge of the blade, with the word kante carefully printed beside it. Kante meant edge, as in the edge of a knife blade. Poor Gunther had been beaten for trying to tell me his name.
That evening I made a cake using all my marge and flour ration for the week and an egg I had been going to smuggle to Gunther in his tea mug.
Then I heard on the radio that the war was over. The next morning I waited for Gunther and his escort to appear, but when nobody came that day, or the next, or the next I knew that I would not see Gunther again.
In 1954 a letter arrived, the envelope a mess of re-directions and franking stamps. It was addressed to me in a handwriting I didn’t
recognise. Inside were two sheets of paper, one was another drawing of me and Gunther smiling at one another and shaking hands. The other was a note in fractured English.
Dearing lady, Gunther saying is to me. This lady is gut. She gave me bisgit. She lovit to me. Please giving it to her, is my want.
Dearing lady, Gunther ist tod.
Frau Anna Kante.
I didn’t need to translate tod. I had read that word before. It had been in the official notice I had received from Germany in 1938, when
my husband David had been found dead in a Munich gutter.
For although he was English and a respected mathematics lecturer, David had also had the misfortune to be born a Jew.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27742/kante to download
I was digging in the thick chalky soil of my garden when I heard a man’s voice say ‘Excuse me, Miss.’ I raised my left hand to shade my eyes and make my wedding ring more evident. Three men stood at the gate: a policeman, a soldier with a bayonet fixed to his rifle and a dishevelled-looking man in a tatty grey uniform and no hat. It was the lack of a hat as much the ash blonde hair that alerted me. This man was a prisoner of war.
‘Ere you are, miss,’ said the policemen, ‘an ‘Un to ‘elp yer wiv the diggin.’
Gunther rose on his toes and clicked his heels as he nodded to me. In response the soldier dug him in the ribs with his rifle butt and
snarled.‘That’ll do, Eh-dolf.’ For a moment Gunther held my gaze and I saw a weary acceptance in his eyes. He was a prisoner of war and could expect no better.
For a moment we stood, an uneasy little group, either side of my garden gate and then I lifted the latch and stood back.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I said to no one in particular.
‘That would be lovely, Miss’ said the policeman. The soldier nodded. Gunther just scuffed his boot in the dust. He was handcuffed.
I brought the mugs of tea and three stale biscuits on a tray into the garden. The men took a mug each, Gunther waiting till he got a nod from the soldier before accepting his. He nodded and muttered ‘Danke.’
I offered a biscuit to the policeman, who after a show of polite reluctance took it. The soldier much younger and less socially adept
put his mug back on the tray, said ‘Ta,’ grabbed a biscuit and shoved it whole into his mouth before taking back his tea. I took the last biscuit and held it out to Gunther. He looked confused and worried.
The policeman cleared his throat noisily.
‘Er, that’s givin’ comfort to the emennee, Miss. And that's an offence.’
‘Don’t worry, constable,’ I said, ‘there is precious little comfort in a stale biscuit, and I shall be making sure he works it off.’
I pulled my shoulders back and pushed my chest out, only realising when I saw the startled expression on two of the faces, how, in
attempting to appear confident, I had inadvertently given my words a double meaning. If Gunther had noticed anything he at least had the good sense to be studying his tea when the other men looked at him. ‘He can dig out that tree root for a start.’ I added quickly, grateful that I didn’t blush easily.
Gunther was a willing horse, accepting and interpreting my mimed instructions, and working steadily while his guard stood back and
drank endless cups of tea made with endlessly re-used tea-leaves. We all became used to the routine. Gunther greeting me with ‘Guten morgen’ and leaving with ‘Gute nacht’. One day he turned to me and said ‘Ich heisse, Gunther Kante’. Immediately the guard drove him to his knees with a vicious blow of his rifle butt.
‘You fillfee sod,’ he shouted, ‘say you’re sorry, using language like that in front of a lady.’
‘Nein, nein. Es mein name, Gunther Kante.’ Poor Gunther suffered several more brutal blows before I could intervene. The guard called for support and Gunther was taken away. It was several weeks before I saw him again having cajoled and bullied and pulled every string I could lay my hands on to get him back. The evidence of his treatment was clear. His nose had been broken and most of his front teeth were missing. From then on he would bow politely to me when he arrived and when he left but never speak.
By April my garden was in excellent shape and I was sure I would have a superb crop of fruit and vegetables. Things had relaxed a little as it was becoming clear that victory in Europe was not far off. The V1s and 2s had stopped falling and after a while Gunther was even allowed to continue working while his escort noisily emptied his bladder in my tiny white-washed closet. A pleasant relief for both of them from the tedious necessity of handcuffing Guther to the garden stand-pipe.
It was on one of these occasions that I noticed a scrap of folded paper on the ground near where Gunther was working. The guard
literally had his back turned, so I bent down, picked up the paper and put it in the pocket of my apron.
I waited until later, when I was alone, to unfold the paper. Then I stared in amazement at the drawings. Gunther and I were either side of a chimpanzee with a rifle. The drawings were deft and assured; I had been captured as Gunther had first seen me my hand shading my eyes while he looked straight at me his expression gentle and humorous. Underneath my portrait was my name Isobel, though how he knew I have no idea, and underneath his was written Gunther Kante. There was also a drawing of a knife and an arrow pointing to the edge of the blade, with the word kante carefully printed beside it. Kante meant edge, as in the edge of a knife blade. Poor Gunther had been beaten for trying to tell me his name.
That evening I made a cake using all my marge and flour ration for the week and an egg I had been going to smuggle to Gunther in his tea mug.
Then I heard on the radio that the war was over. The next morning I waited for Gunther and his escort to appear, but when nobody came that day, or the next, or the next I knew that I would not see Gunther again.
In 1954 a letter arrived, the envelope a mess of re-directions and franking stamps. It was addressed to me in a handwriting I didn’t
recognise. Inside were two sheets of paper, one was another drawing of me and Gunther smiling at one another and shaking hands. The other was a note in fractured English.
Dearing lady, Gunther saying is to me. This lady is gut. She gave me bisgit. She lovit to me. Please giving it to her, is my want.
Dearing lady, Gunther ist tod.
Frau Anna Kante.
I didn’t need to translate tod. I had read that word before. It had been in the official notice I had received from Germany in 1938, when
my husband David had been found dead in a Munich gutter.
For although he was English and a respected mathematics lecturer, David had also had the misfortune to be born a Jew.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27742/kante to download