IN SEARCH OF A FISHING
Long ago in Winnipeg I remember finding two young French girls in the
immigrants’ reception camp. I inquired if they had come to Canada
alone. Whereat the elder with a fine gesture replied, “O non, nous
ne sommes pas seules, mais mon père est allé en ville acheter des
terres.” In a spirit no less spacious and confident we set out one fine
afternoon to find a fishing. The Army of Occupation is desperately
interested in fishing; so, like the “terres” of which my Winnipeg
friend spoke, good fishing is hard to come by. Consequently much
reticence on the subject exists, not to say craft. The trout streams of
the Bergische Land or in the Eiffel are set in ideal surroundings from
the fisherman’s point of view. All that is lacking on many occasions is
the trout. The country folk are fond of talking of miraculous draughts
of fishes which existed in the days before the war. The old gentleman
who hires out rods by the day, when confronted with an empty bag, will
explain elaborately that this unfortunate result is due to the fact
that the British soldiers have caught so many trout; things are not
what they used to be. Personally I am a little sceptical about these
disclaimers and the shifting of the responsibility on to the broad back
of the Occupation. Not that any feeling exists against Thomas Atkins
in the British bridgehead. It is pleasant throughout our area to talk
to the villagers and to hear their friendly remarks about the troops.
Of course there were some bad characters and some bad behaviour. But
Atkins, kindly and easygoing, has been a missionary of reconciliation
in many a German village. Women will tell you that they helped with the
house and were kind to the children; “any English person is sure of a
welcome in a village where English soldiers have been.”
So despite some lapses on the part of the Army over trout--there are
stories of hand grenades used in streams--we set out with confidence to
explore some valleys on the back side of Söllingen, where, according to
rumour, trout of large size and merit abounded in ideal streams. Our
chauffeur had a German friend who knew of a fishing. The afternoon was
before us, so we set out to find the friend.
For a time we went north along the Rhine, past the great factory
of Leverkusen--famous for its dyes, and during the war one of the
most important of German munition works. Our way lay amid the many
industrial establishments which mark the high road to Düsseldorf,
and I looked with envy on their smokeless chimneys. Beyond Opladen
we turned off to the right and, with the bewildering rapidity which
happens in this district, found ourselves in a few minutes in a purely
rural valley. Here were orchards and open meadows and black and white
houses. We twisted in and out along various side-roads, till the road
itself showed signs of ending in a secluded valley where a mill-pond,
a mill, and a miller came into view. The miller was the chauffeur’s
friend. They shook hands solemnly and exchanged greetings. Then we were
introduced--was there any fishing to let? He, the chauffeur, knew from
previous experience that the stream was well thought of. The miller was
friendly but could give us little help. The proprietor was just dead,
the upper stream was let, there were no trout now in the lower pond.
But he had a friend, Herr Hermann Hollweg, who owned a Bade-anstalt in
a neighbouring village. Herr Hollweg most certainly would put us in the
way of getting a fine trout stream.
Back again we went, therefore, to hunt up the Bade-anstalt and Herr
Hermann Hollweg. We ran him to earth without much difficulty--a
second polite and courteous gentleman, but again full of regrets that
he had no fishing to let. Herr Hollweg produced a large map of the
countryside. At Nägelsbaum he had a friend, Herr Holbach, who assuredly
would be able to produce trout. Would we kindly mention his name and
Herr Holbach would do his best for us? Before we left would we like to
see his Bade-anstalt? Certainly, we replied, and so we were led through
a scrupulously clean kitchen, to emerge in an open-air swimming bath
of extraordinary size and appointments for a small village. A group
of boys and girls were swimming and splashing about in the water. On
a terrace above the bath was a café where various people were having
refreshments. Behind that was a large concert hall where, according
to Herr Hollweg, the company danced on Sundays. Nothing has struck me
more in Germany than the excellent and wholesome way in which popular
amusements are arranged. Probably the industrial workers from the
surrounding district pour out to Herr Hollweg’s bath and café and
concert hall on Sundays. But why, one asks, is it impossible to secure
similar amenities for an English town and village, where loafing and
drinking are often the dismal alternative amusements of the Sabbath?
We complimented Herr Hollweg on his establishment and then set out
in pursuit of Herr Holbach. Our road lay through the characteristic
scenery of the Bergische Land: little villages set deep in their
orchards; rich pastures, wheat fields already turning golden under the
summer sun. Woods of beech and oak and lime covered the low hills. In
the early days of the Occupation, British troops had been quartered
in this part of the perimeter, a point about which we were left in no
doubt. The inhabitants from whom we stopped to ask the way countered my
German by a fine flow of English. Small compliments about their prowess
in this respect causes the Boche face to be wreathed in smiles. One
young woman knew all about Herr Holbach. Yes, he had a large pond with
“much fish”--a form of words of which I was growing a trifle tired.
Down the hill we went again till a large dam came into view--that
part of the story at least was true. Also there must be some earnest
expectation or hope of fish, judging by the depressing number of rods
which were dangling over the bank. We walked on to the damhead, and
there encountered a hero in charge of two rods. He had lived in America
and spoke English fluently. No, we had come to the wrong place for
trout; this was carp-fishing--witness the rods. Were there any carp? Oh
yes. Upon which he plunged down to the water’s edge and produced a net
with two large fish in it. Herr Holbach, who lived in a house across
the dam, might have some trout-fishing, but he was doubtful about this.
Our latest friend had served in the Navy, and we fell into general
conversation with him. As is usual when talking to German working-men,
I was struck by a sense of weariness and horror in all he said about
the war. Their rulers had been mad, that was his view; the war had
brought nothing but utter misery, there ought never to be another one;
they were happy and prosperous before, now they were ruined. Our talk
on the damhead was yet another proof that if the League of Nations ever
becomes a going concern, it will draw its strength, not from the upper
classes, many of whom are rooted in the ways of the old diplomacy, but
from the humble folk like our fisherman whose souls have been branded
in the furnace of war.
But the afternoon was going on, and though we had had much pleasant
conversation, the fishing still eluded us. Herr Holbach’s house, or
rather farm, stood on the bank of another lake, and there, apparently,
in addition to agriculture he turned an honest penny by letting out
boats or arranging facilities for swimming.
Herr Holbach proved as pleasant as his predecessors, but equally
elusive on the subject of trout. No, he dealt solely in carp; then came
the familiar leitmotiv for which I was waiting--the English soldiers
had taken all the trout. But he had a friend, Herr Richard Klassen,
at Witzhelden, who had fishing to let and enormous trout. It was very
expensive, but the trout were of a size and vigour under which any
ordinary rod would bend to breaking point. His advice to us was to go
and interview Herr Klassen, recommended to that end by Herr Holbach.
The sun was drawing to the west and long shadows were beginning to fall
over the hills and glades. If indeed it was to be our fate perpetually
to chase trout from one valley to another in this smiling land,
there might be a worse lot. We turned our car, and once again, hope
triumphing over experience, we set out in search of Herr Klassen.
Herr Klassen, so our instructions ran, lived near the church in
Witzhelden. We found the house in possession of a girl, who to our
surprise showed signs of alarm at the sight of a uniform. However,
her face cleared up when we explained we had come about fishing.
Herr Klassen was in the hayfield; she would fetch him. Meanwhile, a
neatly-dressed elderly man with a lump of putrid meat in his hand came
up the road and took off his hat politely. This was Herr Klassen’s
brother. The gentleman was, like his niece, a trifle nervous at seeing
us, but became garrulous when our errand was revealed. We came from
Cologne did we--then of course we knew of the most regrettable incident
which had overtaken the Klassen family last week. No? Was it possible
we had not heard--they had been fined five thousand marks for having
firearms in the house;--the whole family were devoted to sport and they
had various shooting guns they had not given up.
Hence these tears. We expressed sympathy with the family troubles, but
said it was foolish not to have mentioned the various fowling-pieces
of whose innocent intentions Herr Klassen spoke with such conviction.
However, he showed no resentment that the long arm of British law had
touched him in his remote village, though, as the hero of the hour, his
feelings were clearly a little hurt that we had no knowledge of his
fame. At this moment up came Herr Richard Klassen, hot and perspiring
from the hayfield.
Yes, he had a pond, and he had a lot of trout. They were not very big
as yet, but they would soon grow; was he not feeding them on lumps
of the dead cow whose remains had caused me to get to windward of
his brother. Would we like to see the pond? Nothing was easier. Down
another small valley, therefore, we plunged again till the road came to
an end, and a pretty path through a wood brought us out on the shore
of a secluded pond. It was a peaceful scene, with the warm sunlight on
the wood and the water, and the sweet smell of new-cut hay reaching
us from a neighbouring meadow. As we walked we admired the beauty of
the country. This moved Herr Klassen to a flow of words: the country
was beautiful, but men were bad; since the war there was no honour,
no goodness, no morality. It was all greed and grab, “Wucher” and
“Schieber.” And the end would be Bolshevism. Herr Klassen’s lack of
faith in human nature was demonstrated practically by the barbed-wire
entanglements which surrounded his trout pond. Along the narrow track
by the water’s edge were various, almost invisible, contrivances
destined to show whether any trespasser had come that way. Here at last
were some trout, if only little ones. But little trout grow, and Herr
Klassen was emphatic that if we would come back in a fortnight or three
weeks we should have good sport. As for payment, it was to be strictly
by results--no fish, no cash. All fish caught were paid for at so much
a pound--a very fair arrangement.
It was pleasant to linger by the water-side in the evening sunshine,
and, pipes and cigarettes being produced, the talk slid east and west
over matters of greater moment than the trout. We had been joined by a
friend of Herr Klassen’s, a wag with red hair and freckled face who
poked fun at his neighbour with great vigour. Freckles had been to the
war, Herr Klassen had not--the women and the Church would not let him
go, declared the former; at which Herr Klassen raised protesting hands
to heaven. Both men spoke with evident alarm of Bolshevism. Another
war was bound to come, only next time it would be a Bolshevist war.
It must be remembered this pleasant Bergische Land is not so very far
removed from the Ruhr district, and that at Remscheid only a few miles
away there had been shootings and murders. The spectre of anarchy and
red revolution has come very near homes such as Herr Klassen’s, and
for revolution a small farmer of his type has nothing but horror. We
asked about the new Republican Government. It moved neither man to
much enthusiasm. Weakness can never inspire enthusiasm, and the policy
pursued by the Allies towards Germany has made it impossible for any
government to be strong. Herr Klassen said what they wanted was a
constitutional monarchy like England. They were doubtful of Republics.
France was a Republic and they did not want to be like France.
We talked of the war and the peace and the threatening condition of
affairs in Eastern Europe. Both men called down fire from heaven on
the Poles. No German can speak of a Pole in measured language. Soon
there would be a Bolshevist army in Warsaw, and then what was going to
happen to Germany? Freckles, who had fought on the Eastern Front, spoke
well of the Russians. They were brave men, so he said, and if properly
armed and properly led would fight as well as the Germans. They had no
chance in the war; men could not fight with spades and hayforks. They
were mown down like sheep because they had often neither rifles nor
guns. Klassen had had a Russian prisoner working on his farm and had
found him a good fellow. Freckles, who was, I gathered, not a man of
property, was rather attracted by some of the anti-capitalist ideas of
the Bolsheviks. Klassen was talking bitterly of the Schiebers and the
terrific price of food and goods in Germany--capitalism was a curse.
“What are you but a capitalist,” retorted Freckles with a grin; “you
have four cows and some land and a pond full of trout”--before which
sally Klassen, who was clearly at the mercy of his more nimble-witted
friend, collapsed entirely. “What about the arms, too,” said Freckles
with another grin and a wink in our direction. Klassen turned to us as
eagerly as his brother. Of course we had heard of the law proceedings
in Cologne at which he had been fined? No? His face fell on realising
the limited span of his fame; it was a terrible affair; he did not know
how he should get the money for the fine.
We packed both men into the car and took them back to the village,
where we parted with mutual goodwill. “In a fortnight, then,” said
Klassen, “you will come again when the fish are bigger. Yes, you can
bring a friend too if you wish.”
So we said good evening and, consoled by the discovery of a secret pond
if we had failed to secure a length of stream, travelled westwards
towards the setting sun and Cologne.