Chapter Sixteen: The Farm Jakowitz and the Restaurant Symanski

August 5, 1940

Luke would never let Peter live it down that he was wrong. They did end up working at the same farm as Louis and Marcel. After appel and breakfast, the men in their barracke were lined up with Louis's and Marcel's barracke. In total, sixty men marched to one farm that was a couple of miles away from the camp. They were formidably surrounded by guards, who were alert to their every move. But no prisoner was trying anything just yet. No one had been brave enough to test the waters; many were still overcoming the routine each day.

However, when they arrived at the farm, the British and French prisoners were still kept apart. The French were out in the fields, building a fence on the far perimeter of the farm, along the tree line. The British prisoners were building two sheds near the barn to accommodate supplies. It was a slow start to their job; not everyone was a handyman. Most of the men could handle complicated nuts and bolts on a plane, but as for nailing two piece of wood together and making it stand up…that was a different story.

Fortunately, they were not all clueless. There were enough men, like Stephen, who had done chores like this their entire life. They were able to spread out and help their comrades. By the afternoon, when it was time to go, a fair amount of progress had been made, and the prisoners were actually proud of their work.

This particular farm became the second home of the British prisoners in Barracke 14. Even after a week and the two sheds were completed and one was stocked with tools, they were to work on the farm. After the French completed the fence around the perimeter, they were taken off the farm, and sent in town. That was when Peter nudged Luke on the shoulder and said "I told you so". Though they had been on the same farm as Louis and Marcel, they had never worked near them, much less together.

The farm was somewhat of a marvel to the prisoners, who eventually realized that they were hired hands. Over the month of August, and into September, they worked the farm, keeping it running. It was large and busy. There were about twenty acres of fields in which a harvest would have come if the farm had not been completely destroyed when Poland was conquered. The fields were now cleaned up and ready to have seed put down but that would not be until the spring. Then, on the other side of the farm, another fifty acres stood on a natural open field, where sheep and cattle grazed. That was where a small profit would be made by the farmer. His wool would be sold to the German military. The heads of cattle would not be selling anything, because the farmer was trying to breed their numbers up before he killed any for the meat. In the barn, there were two pigs, four working horses, and a cow.

A week into their work, the prisoners at last saw the owner of the farm. He was a middle-aged man, with an obvious air of authority around him. He was tall, muscular, and worn. His hands were calloused and his brow creased. His sleeves were always rolled up, and his boots appeared to be older than he was. His surnsme was Jakowitz, and that was what the prisoners called him. They rarely spoke to him, unless he came up to them to show them how to do specifically perform a chore. And even then, a guard had to translate, so they were never alone with Jakowitz. The prisoners respected Jakowitz, because he never let the Nazis have any slack. On his farm, he gave most of the orders. It was only when the security of the prisoners was an issue that he lost any battle. He always seemed frustrated. He was used to running his farm, his way and giving his orders. He had not fought in the war, intending to keep his farm and family safe. He had a pleasant wife, and three younger children. However, they were all rarely seen except for on the Saturdays that the prisoners worked. The children went to school in town during the week, and the wife worked in the factory on the other side of town. Therefore, it was always the good farmer himself stomping around his estate, ensuring that things were done right. When the children were home, they stuck close to the house and barn. The prisoners were a marvel to them, and sometimes they would just watch them work. The prisoners, however, were kept as far away as possible from all the other inhabitants on the farm except for Jakowitz. The guards kept any contact that was unnecessary verboten. Even, one Saturday, the wife had come outside with warm bread, and had tried to give it to the five prisoners working in the barn. She was shooed away, and went back inside with an apologetic glance towards the prisoners.

That was on September 1st. Peter and Luke had been in the barn, cleaning out the stalls. (Stephen was always with the sheep herd, since that was his profession before the war.) Peter and Luke had longingly watched the bread go back inside. Berg marched in, telling them to go back to work. As Peter went back to chucking out slop from the pigs' stall (something he had never imagined himself doing—he was from East End after all) he thought of how he had been a prisoner now for three months. It seemed like an eternity. The future was now always certain. Day-by-day, of course. The far future, though, that was uncertain. It was so far away, and the paramount concern of each prisoner was to make it through the next day. Thoughts went to home, and what took place there. Major Duerr had told them that their information had gone off, so that one day they would get a letter. That was last month. Many wondered if it was all a lie, for no one had received a scrap of paper from the faraway lands they called home.

Some wondered if they would ever see those faraway lands again.

***** ***** *****

August 13, 1940

Louis looked at the building in front of him and wondered if perhaps he had a guardian angel after all. He could not help but smile as the guard gave him a push into the back door of a Polish restaurant. It was the kitchen that he was ushered into. And as soon as the door opened he found himself staring into the business end of a ladle. The chef was going absolutely crazy towards the guards, exclaiming incomprehensible words.

Louis was sure he knew their meaning however. He would be angry if he was forced to have someone work in his kitchen. The guard, however, was flatly shooting down all arguments with a hand towards his pistol and a threat to call the police. The chef gave up then, and the guard stated once more that the chef needed workers, so he got one.

Louis was surprised when the guard actually left the kitchen, but a quick peek outside the window showed him that the guard was standing right outside the door. He looked back at the chef who was rambling at him in Polish.

"Jakie są Pana? Francja? Anglicy? Mają Państwo zostało nawet w kuchni oprócz armii kafeterii? Czytelnik zapewne nie uczynili przekraczających skórką ziemniaków w wojsku." (1)

Louis just blinked, which made the chef throw his ladle across the kitchen. A boy, another worker in the kitchen, peeked over the counter apprehensively. He flinched when the chef kicked a pot across the floor. It clattered loudly against the wall.

Louis just sighed. How was he supposed to convince this man that he did know what he was doing in a kitchen? How was he supposed to convince this chef that he was in fact a gourmet chef? Well, not quite professionally yet, but he had trained with the best.

He waited patiently for the chef to settle down. After a couple of minutes of ranting to no one but perhaps the shy boy behind the counter, the chef stopped pacing and sat down on a stool next to his stove. He looked at Louis, who had remained standing in the same spot since he arrived.

"To, co mam czynić?" (2)

Hearing that it was indeed a question, Louis just shrugged his shoulders, giving the slightest answer of "I don't know".

The chef shook his head, and closed his eyes, looking heavenward.

"Dlaczego Bóg? Dlaczego mnie i moich restauracji?" (3)

Upon hearing another question, Louis shrugged again.

Then, the boy came from around the counter and stood before the chef.

"Jestem pewien mógłby przechowywać w kuchni czysta dla nas, Papa. Każdemu żołnierzowi wie jak do czyszczenia." (4)

The chef smiled gratefully at the boy, and Louis supposed that the boy was trying to be encouraging. The chef then stood up, and with a regretful look towards Louis, motioned the French prisoner to follow. He was brought to a closet, and inside was a broom, mop, and water bucket. Louis sighed, realizing what his job would be.

"Za, Pani wie tego, czego Państwo musi przechowywać ją wykonać. czyste, lub dam a bad sprawozdanie do państwa straży granicznej. He was nawiedzę później." (5)

Louis just nodded, imagining what may be said. He had an idea, because if someone had been forced into his kitchen, he would make them do the same and threaten them in the same way. So, he picked up the broom, and went straight to his job. The chef seemed satisfied that the prisoner was at least trying to keep the kitchen clean.

The first week crawled in Louis's mind. When he was back at camp, though, he found that all of his friends thought it very ironic that he was in a kitchen. Peter didn't understand what the big idea was about someone coming to work in a kitchen. If it needed to be clean, it was all the same to him.

But Louis put him straight quickly, much to everyone's entertainment. And eventually Peter admitted that yes, he too would have an issue with being told who he must keep at work.

"Would you let me work in your kitchen Louie," asked Peter.

Louis smiled evilly through the fence. "Never."

"Wot?! Why?! I could at least clean!"

"But you would do something to the food. I know it!"

"I'm 'urt, mate, really 'urt. 'Ow could you say a thing like that?"

"Easy: I know it's true."

They were talking alone. Luke and Stephen were kicking a soccer ball around, and Marcel was off with Arcenau somewhere. Red Cross packages had finally come bearing treats like condensed milk and chocolate and cigarettes, and also board games and cards. Peter had taken one of the decks and kept it in his pocket ever since. Right now, he was fooling around with them in his hands as he and Louis walked the fence line talking.

Peter gave him an innocent puppy face. "Not even if I was starvin' an' needed a job?"

"Well, maybe if you were starving and needed a job. But you still would not be allowed in the kitchen. You would be the maître de porte. I think you could manage that."

Peter scowled. "I'll 'ave you know that I worked in a kitchen when I was twelve years old!"

"Phui! That was an English pub. That 'ardly means you qualify for the intense atmosphere of a gourmet kitchen."

Peter just chuckled.

"A que riez-vous?" (6)

"You take all o' this so seriously! 'Ow intense could a kitchen possibly get? I know there's a rush 'our, but you can't convince me that it's all that tough."

"There's a lot I could try to convince you of, and yet your little English brain just wouldn't be able to 'andle it all."

"Oh, you're just sour because you know I'm right."

"Since when 'ave you been right about anything since we met?"

There was silence for an answer.

"Well, it's only been three months or so."

Louis laughed. Then, the whistle blew signaling the end of the recreation hour. It was time to go back in and then a measly dinner would be served.

"Do not worry, Pierre," said Louis with a sly grin. "One day, I will let you work in my kitchen, and you will see that it is definitely a calling."

"We'll see," said Peter. "See you tomorrow."

"Au revoir."

As Peter walked off, he realized that that was the first time he had talked of the future, so certain it would be there.

A month later, Louis resigned to the fact that this was where he would be as long as he remained at Stalag XXXA. He only saw the back of the restaurant and the outside of it. But apparently it was quite busy, because the chef, his boy, and a lady who Louis assumed was the chef's wife, were always at work.

Louis watched their business from afar. The boy, who he learned was called Mikolaj, mostly did some other cleaning and chopped up vegetables and such. He also boiled noodles (Louis never knew Poland had noodles) and rice. The wife, Janina, baked and made deserts and gathered the drinks. There were two waiters, but Louis rarely saw them. They were two young girls, perhaps not even out of secondary school.

Aside from motioning over and giving orders that could not be understood, the chef, Karol Symanski, ignored Louis as much as possible. Louis always arrived at the same time, promptly ready to begin his days' chores. He was not the only prisoner in town. His entire barracke worked in town. Marcel worked in a tailor shop, and mostly organized the colors and materials. He reported that it was a very dull job. All the prisoners in town were kept out of sight as much as possible. They were only seen in public when they were marched in and marched out.

One day, Mikolaj was not there. Karol and Janina were splitting up his duties, but they were obviously having some difficulties. So, hoping Karol would not mind, while Jamina was pulling something out of the oven and setting it to the side to cool, Louis chopped up some more vegetables. When she went back to the cutting board, she was surprised to find her work done.

"Dziękuję, Karol." (7)

Karol did not look up from stirring a pot. "Thank you for what," he asked in Polish.

"Cutting the vegetables," answered Jamina.

"I did not—" He spun around and looked at Louis. "You! Did you cut them?!"

Louis froze in the doorway. He was going to throw out some trash. Looking back, he saw that astounded fury on Karol's face.

"Ja wam powiedział do nigdy nie dotykać w kuchni niczego innego." (8)

Louis, realizing how angry Karol was, just shook his head, putting on the most innocent expression he could.

"J'aidais juste!" (9)

Karol looked like he could hit Louis. The guard (the same guard who always watched Louis, Corporal Alaric) came in, wondering why the door was open and no one had come out. Seeing how angry Karol was, he immediately grabbed Louis by the collar and demanded what had happened.

"I was just trying to help," confessed Louis in English. "They were rushing around, so I cut the vegetables for them. I know how!"

Not releasing Louis, Corporal Alaric explained to Karol what Louis had done.

"He did not cut them badly," said Jamina softly to her husband. She held some pieces in her hand. "You see? They are so well done that I thought you had cut them."

Karol looked at them. "Yes, they are cut well." He sighed, and looked at Louis. "What was your occupation before the war?"

Louis looked at his guard for a translation. He smiled at the question. "I worked in my uncle's restaurant in Paris. I am his assistant chef."

Corporal Alaric chuckled at the irony of the situation and then translated Louis's answer back to Karol and Jamina. Jamina just smiled gratefully, and Karol just looked genuinely surprised.

"You mean, this whole time I thought you were a worthless soldier, you were actually a real chef from Paris," asked Karol after a moment.

Corporal Alaric laughed. "I will go back out now, and you may have him do what you wish. But he must stay in the kitchen."

"He will," said Karol, almost excitedly. "I promise."

Corporal Alaric just laughed again and went back outside, closing the door behind him.

After that day, Louis had more freedom in the kitchen, and ended up working side by side with young Mikolaj in cutting up vegetables, boiling other foods, and also cleaning. Though it was still diminutive work, Karol no longer regarded him as an annoying tick and he even was able to have some extra food every now and then.

Also, though it felt terrible, he could not help but steal some extra bread. Though it felt horrible the first time, when he saw how his comrades' eyes lit up when they saw more bread, it was a pleasant reward. The next time he was able to slip some into his pocket, he saved it for Peter, Luke, and Stephen. They were able to toss some pieces through the fence while the guard looked the other way.

Louis never thought he would steal, and Peter teased him for it. But now he understood why: going to bed with a full stomach had never been more satisfying.

Translations:

(1) What are you? French? English? Have you even been in a kitchen besides the army's cafeteria? You probably have done no more than peel potatoes in the military.

(2) What do I do with you?

(3) Why god? Why me and my restaurant?

(4) I am sure he could keep the kitchen clean for us, Papa. Every soldier knows how to clean.

(5) Now, you know what you must do. Clean, or I will give a bad report to your guard and he will later punish you.

(6) What are you laughing at?

(7) Thank you, Karol.

(8) I told you to never touch anything else in the kitchen.

(9) I just helped!