Remembering Ammai

I haven’t made any posts on my blog since August 7. On that night there was a call from Kerala saying that my eldest ammai (aunt) and godmother, Elikutty (wife of late Jose A. Kallivayalil), had died. I caught a flight to attend the funeral and returned to Chennai only yesterday.

Ammai was 96 years old. She had no health problems except dementia for the last two years. On 7^th afternoon she suddenly took ill and died the same night in a private hospital at Cochin. She did not suffer and did not make others suffer.

Ammai was almost like a mother to me and she leaves behind so many happy memories. Some thing remarkable about her funeral was that a number of the old plantation crowd who are still alive, and the children of those who have passed on, attended the burial. She was so well respected.

Uncle Jose (Jose A. Kallivayalil) was a prominent planter. He was also involved in promoting several companies. In fact he was one of the original promoters of Apollo Tyres Ltd. His public life started at a young age with a visit to Bikaner when Sardar KM Panikker was the Dewan of that State.

From then on, he moved with Maharajas, bigwigs in Delhi, diplomats, Governors and so on. But his greatest achievement was resettling hundreds of families from Palai area in Kottayam District to Malabar, the northern part of Kerala during the late 1930s – early 1940s. They were people who did not have enough land to cultivate.

This was something akin to what his father, KC Abraham (Kallivayalil-Konduparambil) had done twenty years earlier. (Remembering grandfather) And these settlers changed the face of Malabar which was then under direct British rule.

Ammai was the strength behind uncle. She was the one who organized the lavish parties he held at home (see Heron’s Pool: A town, a house, a book and a ship). She could move with British nobility and the local village folks with equal ease.

Each death leaves a vacuum that cannot be filled. The void created by Ammai passing on hangs heavily in my mind. What do I remember most about her? Often I used to be tense about presenting serious matters to uncle; he had a formidable personality. So I would tell Ammai and she would handle the problem.

May her soul rest in peace.

[I took this photo of Ammai last year.]

Remembering Appan

What is the importance of March 28, 1959?

According to history books, China dissolved the Tibetan Government on that day and installed Panchen Lama.

That was the end of an era and the beginning of another.

And so it was it for my family, for a different reason. Appan. (father) died of a heart attack on the evening of March 28, 1959. It was Holy Saturday that year. He was just 56. The local doctor, who was a family friend as well, was there, but he could do nothing to stop the inevitable.

Appan was buried the next day in the family crypt at St. Antony's Church, Thycattussarry . Since it was Easter Sunday, the priests wore white vestments instead of the traditional black for funerals.

We – his descendants, relatives and friends, and the local people - gathered this March 28 to commemorate Appan.’s 50^th death anniversary.Not many who were present for the function that day knew Appan personally. But they had heard of him, of his contributions to the family, the society and the people of that area.

It was a simple event – Holy Mass at the St. Antony’s Church, Thycattussarry and prayers at the crypt led by His Eminence Cardinal Varkey Vithayathil, Major Archbishop and head of the Syro-Malabar Church. After that there was a vegetarian lunch at home followed by reminiscences of Appan by some of the people who knew him.

As a speaker pointed out, Appan’s short lifespan covered a unique period in history. He was born on March 23, 1903, the date on which the Wright Brothers obtained patent for their flying machine.

Appan saw the two World Wars, the Great Depression, Indian Independence, the switch over from feudalism to democracy, and the first Communist Government in Kerala. He was able to adjust to the great changes during his time extremely well and remained a respected leader of the Parayil Family and the people of our area.

Appan once told me that progress is a series of changes and adjustments. His life proved that to be true. I was 25 when Appan died. My elder sister was 27, and the youngest amongst us siblings, a sister, was just 6 years old. By God’s Grace and the value system Appan and Ammachi (Oru Desathinte Amma.) instilled in us, all of us did well in life.

Half a century is a long time in a person’s life. Memories become blurred, details forgotten, and pictures faded. Years ago, I described Appan’s death in a Short Story: A Bend in the Lake. I am reproducing the relevant portion here:

‘Some of the details were clear in my mind. Mother lying on a cot and crying silently. The crowd. Priests chanting prayers. The muted band playing as the raft carrying my father’s coffin moved away into the sunset for the cemetery across the lake.

“That morning,” the Captain was saying, “I saw the crowd. The servants and the tenants were beating their chests and weeping. Your father was a much respected man.”’

That raft, along with Appan’s coffin, carried away an era.

His Eminence, Cardinal Vithayathil leading prayers at
Appan's crypt on March 28, 2009.

Appan's crypt. The stripes are made with white and brown rice. All other
decorations are also done with produces of the land.

Photos: TP, JJT. Copyright reserved.
Click to enlarge.

Also see: Remembering grandfather

From the Memory Box: Ponnozhukum Thodu – the stream where gold flows

Somewhere in the deep recesses of the human brain there are little memory boxes. The past is stored in them. Occasionally an invisible key opens them spontaneously. It could be a sound, a smell, a picture, a face that triggers the process.

Yesterday I thought of Ponnozhukum Thodu. Ponnozhukum means ‘(where) gold flows’ and thodu is stream. What turned on the kaleidoscope into the past was a photograph on the Kallivayalil Family website (http://www.kallivayalil.com/). That is Ammachi’s (mother’s) family. (See Oru Desathinte Amma.)

The picture shows a scene from the Ponnozhukum Thodu – rice fields, cattle grazing in the distance, an ancient structure that is called ‘madom’ in which the ground floor is storage space and above that is an old Kerala style hall.

Ammachi’s ancestral house, known as Konduparambil, is east facing, on a hillock. The view from there is beautiful. About a hundred meters from the house is the road which Ichachan (See: Remembering grandfather) had opened long ago to the public. After that are the rice fields.

A causeway links the road to the private bathing ghat with a thatched canopy at the thodu. Again a stretch of paddy fields. Beyond them were the hills, greenish to start with, slowly fading into a hazy blue in the distance and merging with the sky.

Summer holidays were customarily spent at mother’s house. That was the time for play and pranks and frolicking in the sparkling stream for hours on end. Some of the smooth pebbles and sand in the brook glitter like gold. That was how it got its name.

Later on, when I grew up, I came to know that the gleam was caused by manganese content. Sad end to a childhood myth. But it still remains Ponnozhukum Thodu, gold or not.

Thirty odd years back I took my two elder children to visit Emmachi (that is what we used to call grandmother). They wanted to bathe in the brook about which I had told them so much. Emmachi gave us thorth (native towels) and Pears Soap. For some reason it was always Pears Soap at mother’s house.

There was a warning as well from Emmachi: ‘Don’t let them spend too much time in the stream like you did. They are not used to this water.’ True. Bangalore where they were studying had no Ponnozhukum Thodu.

That was the last time I went to the stream. And the last time I saw Emmachi.

Ends.

Also see: Gold color chips and a golden hearted Lady

Nostalgia: A 58 years old table tennis table

This table tennis table at Olavipe was made in early 1950. It could be possibly one of the earliest at a private residence in Kerala and one of the oldest still in use. Now the fourth generation is beginning to play on it.

In Death of a Priest Turned Layman. I had described about the TT table at our family’s Private Oratory (exclusive church - see A Kerala Tharavad.). That was where my two directly younger brothers, Mathew and Joe, and I learned the game.

Then we got our own table. After the wedding of our elder sister Mariamma (Mrs. Mathew Alapatt) in November 1949, the many wooden planks used for temporary tables were stashed away in the ‘thadi pura’ (timber shed). One of us thought of using a few of them for a TT table and Appan. agreed.

Enter Paramu, one of our regular carpenters. This short, fair and talkative chap was bored with run of the mill work. He loved a challenge, new ideas that he could transform into near perfect creations in wood. He took the measurements of the table at the church (I don’t remember from where that one was acquired) and went to work.

A couple of months later, after listening for hours to Paramu stories, we had the table. From then on, every available minute was spent playing TT. Mathew and Joe were very good and did well in State level tournaments. Later they became recognized players at Loyola College, Madras (Chennai).


Mathew had an attacking game and could hit effectively on both flanks. That pushed me into a defensive mode. Joe played an all-round game. We were inspired by the Indian tour of Victor Barna (five times World Champion) and Richard Bergmann (four times World Champion).

I think that was prior to the 1952 World Championships which was held for the first time in Asia, at Bombay. Appropriately, Hiroji Satoh of Japan won the men’s singles at that tournament ending the years of European (read Hungarian) domination of the game.

'Pings’ and ‘pongs’ were part of the sounds of our home for years. Incidentally, when the game was invented in the late 19c by the British, it was known as table tennis. Later, for a while, the label Ping Pong was used. It reverted to the original name when the Table Tennis Association was formed in England in 1926.

Now serious games on our table are rare. That is why it is kept in an outside shed with sand floor. But our grandchildren are growing up and whenever they visit Olavipe the pings and pongs would be back again.

Ends.

Photos: Table by me; it may be freely used by anyone provided that the caption ‘Table Tennis (or TT) table at Olavipe’ is given. Image of stamp is from Wikimedia Commons; it is in the Public Domain.

Human nature: Potters save a life

This happened in 1968, when I was associated with Ruby Rubber Works Ltd., Changanacherry, Kerala. I was on my way, driving a Jeep in heavy drizzle, to pick up a friend, Mathukutty Ettukettil. We were to attend an afternoon function.

The narrow mud road ran along the edge of the cutting to the railway tracks. After a drop of about ten feet there was a flat ledge and again a sheer wall for another twenty feet or so. On the other side of the road was a colony of potters.

Suddenly the Jeep skidded off the road and went over the edge. I hit the ground first and saw the vehicle falling over me.

As it settled, fortunately my entire body except the neck and head was within the front seat space. I grabbed the metal bar of the roof that tapered to the front with both hands and pushed hard against it in an attempt to prevent it from crushing my neck. I knew that I couldn’t continue that for more than a minute.

I could hear people running and shouting. A woman in the potter’s colony had seen the accident and had raised alarm. In no time the Jeep was lifted and I was pulled out. They carried me to one of the huts and laid me on a mat.

I was badly shaken but knew that there was no damage. Within minutes Mathukutty arrived. People from Ruby Rubber followed. They rushed me to the famous Dr. Thomas Varghese (Aniyan) of KTCM Hospital, Vallamkulam. He is a close friend. He confirmed that I was unscathed but for good measure gave me stiff cognac to keep the shivers away.

But for the potters I would have died of a broken neck at the age of 34. And they wouldn’t even take gift from me!

Ends.

Also see: The greatness of human nature – a true story

Nostalgia: The romance of India/Indian Coffee House

What’s the difference between India Coffee House and Indian Coffee House? I shall come to that shortly. What is important is that both together have been serving Indian coffee with the same aroma and taste for seven decades. And three generations have enjoyed it.

In the post Some memories of WW II, Cochin and the 1940s., I mentioned India Coffee House on Broadway, Cochin. My maternal grandfather (KC Abraham, Kallivayalil-Konduparambil) took four of us siblings there when we were children. It was a great experience which we enjoyed thoroughly. We had coffee and glucose biscuits. I don’t think they served stuff like masala dosa those days.

Again I mentioned India Coffee House in the post Bangalore memories. That was a place I loved during college days in the early 1950s. The laid back atmosphere, spending hours over a cup of real coffee, small talk which one forgets even before leaving the place, diverse people – students, journalists, elders. Something that belonged to another era.

Or so I thought, till I came across an article ‘Coffee, tea and memories’ by Priyanka Haldipur in the Deccan Herald. She says: ‘Walk into the place for a feel of what Bangalore would have seemed like almost five decades ago. Nothing has changed in this humble coffee place... not the style, and certainly not the coffee.’

Another Coffee House I remember from my school days is the one at Trivandrum, opposite to the present AG’s Office. They used to serve excellent masala dosa as well. But we mostly patronized Connemara Café, next to Sridharan’s General Store (started by his father Kesavan) and owned by the same people. The favorite there was cutlets with a salad of curry cucumber and a cold, non-aerated orange drink.

These places (other than Connemara) were ‘India Coffee Houses’ to start with. The first was opened in Bombay in 1935 by the Indian Coffee Cess Committee. The objective was to promote the consumption of coffee. Subsequently, Indian Coffee Board took over and built up a chain of 72 coffee houses. But in the 1950s the Board closed down most of these cafes and sacked the workers.

Enter AK Gopalan, the famous Communist leader from Kerala. He organized a worker’s cooperative by the former employees of the Coffee Board and started the first Indian Coffee House at Trichur, Kerala in 1958. It has now grown into a chain of nearly 400 outlets all over India. I believe that Coffee Board still runs about a dozen India Coffee Houses.

This is written over a big cup (a birthday present from my grandson Adithya) of strong black coffee. Good. The coffee, I mean. Whether the article too deserves that comment is for you to judge!

Ends.

Photo credits: Coffee beans - BackgroundBoy, Cup of coffee – PDPhoto.org

Note: The cup shown in the photo is not the one I use

Cool stones

This is one of the best nooks in our ancestral home at Olavipe. The bench-like structures are called kuliru kallu which literally means cool stone. And they are really cool. Sit there with a book and a mug of beer perhaps. Or just look out and enjoy the breeze on the trees around and the birds (not so many these days). Or have a mat spread on it and take a nap. Never a mattress. The mat would be made of grass (pullu paya) or methapaya made from the leaves of Kaitha (Pandanus fascicularis).

I love the cool stones in the cooler weather, meaning, while it rains. May be change from beer to something stronger. Put away the book and watch the rainfall. Listen to the sound of raindrops on the tile roof, on the leaves. Or on the courtyard where the white sand suddenly turns darker as it gets wet. The initial raindrops are absorbed quickly.

Then pools start forming on the courtyard. They indicate uneven spread of the sand, which is to be rectified later. If too much water collects close to the house a worker comes out in the rain and makes small channels for runoff. One feels like going out and getting wet. But that would be considered undignified.

One cannot always do what one likes to, so sit back and think of the childhood days. No dignity to worry about. Just rush into the rain and get thoroughly drenched. That used to be great. Then the call comes – That’s enough, you’ll get sick, come inside immediately. Well, all good things must come to an end. So, in you go. Tried a couple of times going to the far end of the courtyard so that there would be a genuine excuse of not having heard the call. But that didn’t work. A servant would come with the message.

The cool stone has a functional advantage as well. Sitting there one can deal with all sorts of visitors, wanted or unwanted. The close ones of course would come and sit with you. Those who deserve a seat would be provided a chair. Then there are others who would stand, perhaps leaning against a pillar. The leaning part is not really liked; sometimes straighten the man with a question like ‘is something wrong with your back?’ No offence meant or taken. The workers would normally stand outside on the courtyard.

All these can be done even if one is sitting on the veranda on a chair. But there is a difference when one is on the cool stone. The prayer is always that no one should come to disturb the bliss. But wishes often don’t come true.

Ends.

Photos: AT. Click to enlarge.

Also see: Memories: Shoeless on suburban train.

Nostalgia: A clock of time

How many generations has the old clock on the wall of the drawing room (photo on the left) of Thekkanattu Parayil, Olavipe seen? Six for sure; seven if it was bought when my great-grandfather Mathoo Tharakan (A judgment.) was still alive.

The clock had always been in the same room in my memory, but at different locations. Originally it was just below the large painting of Mathoo Tharakan. Then it was shifted to the eastern wall. That was its position when my father died of a heart attack in 1959, sitting almost directly below it.

My grandfather PM Avira Tharakan must have purchased the clock from P. Orr & Sons, Madras (Alligator Tails/Tales/Tiles.). Most of his expensive curios and gadgets, which included a kerosene operated KDK fan, came from that source.

Everybody was interested in winding the clock but only two or three people had the clearance to do that. It was a delicate job; overdoing could break the spring. Also, if the upright position of the clock shifted even fractionally, it wouldn’t work correctly. There was a marking on the wall and the pointed lower part of the clock had to be precisely on that line.

After decades of faithful operation, the clock started malfunctioning occasionally. Then the problems became more frequent – the time shown would be incorrect, the chiming would be wrong and so on. There was only one person, Swamy of Broadway, Cochin who knew how to set it right. Soon the clock was at Swamy’s shop for longer periods than it was at home.

It was always brought back, and bravely struggled on. A couple of weeks back when I was at Olavipe, it was not working. Swamy is no more and therefore my brother Jacob is sending the clock to Kothamangalam where, he was told, an expert named George repairs old clocks as a hobby.

The clock was made by Waterbury Clock Company. I think it is British. Below is a photo of our beloved clock.

Photos: Copyright TP. Click on them for enlarged view

Ends.

Also see: OLAVIPE: Heritage Home of Thekkanattu Parayil Tharakans.

When the Communists came marching in...

Olavipe. A Sunday morning in October 1950. My elder sister Mariamma was expecting her first child by November. The baby would be the first of the fifth generation at Thekkanattu Parayil. Those days women didn’t go to hospital for delivery. They depended on the local midwife and the elders. In this case, the doctor at Thycattussarry Government Hospital was also on the alert.

On the previous evening secret information came that the Communists planned a demonstration march by Comrades brought from other places, through the path in front of our eastern gatehouse. It was something that was unthinkable those days. Four years earlier there had been Communist led uprisings in two places, Vayalar and Punnappura, south of Olavipe. They were put down by the Maharaja’s army (see Morning After the Storm - concluding part.) and the Party was banned.

Then came India’s Independence and the Communists were back in action.

The Party had planned the timing of the march with great care. On Sunday mornings all of us would go to the family church across the lake and only the servants would be at home. In Appan’s absence it was unlikely that any one would dare to prevent the Communist procession. If Appan. had stayed back that by itself would have been considered a success for the Party. Well, Appan, Ammachi (Oru Desathinte Amma.) along with the other children went to church as usual but asked me to stay back in the house.

I was just 17 then, doing my first year of college. I was tense. The servants were huddled together in groups and whispering among them. But Mariamma seemed unconcerned. After a while I went to the eastern gatehouse and to my surprise, found the entire area full of men. Some were sitting on the pentagonal steps of the gatehouse, and others were leaning against coconut trees, or lying on the sand.

They were the people of Olavipe.

I went back inside because a senior supervisor told me that my presence there might make them uncomfortable. After a while the slogan shouting could be heard, faintly at first and louder as the jatha approached. The rest of the events were told to me later.

Instead of reaching the house by the usual route from the north, the Comrades took a detour and came from the south. Just three men, a Christian supervisor, an Ezhava and a Pulaya stopped the demonstrators on a causeway some distance from the house and asked them to go back. They increased the tempo of the slogan shouting but returned the way they came.

When a supervisor came to give me the good news, I told him to organize tender coconuts for our people. But there was no need. By the time I went to the gatehouse, they had left. That was one of the most touching moments of my life.

Francis (Alapatt) the baby boy Mariamma gave birth to is a grandfather today!

It was near the electric post that the march was stopped.
Photo: Copyright TP.

Ends.

Gold color chips and a golden hearted Lady

Sumitha’s ‘Kitchen Wonders’ (http://kitchenwonders.blogspot.com/) is a good Blog. I came across an illustrated recipe on it for jackfruit mousse (an exotic idea, I must say). One photo, that of jackfruit cut lengthwise, reminded me of the chips which Eammachi, my maternal grandmother, used to make from this giant sized fruit.

Those familiar with Kerala are likely to have tasted jackfruit chips. They are available in the market. Most of them are hard, yellow and brownish pieces shaped without any cosmetic sense and packed in plastic (forget about food grade) pouches. A person with a discerning palate may not try the market version again.

Eammachi’s jackfruit chips were of the same color that you see in the ‘Kitchen Wonders’ picture, even-sized, and would crumble in the mouth. And they didn’t have a trace of oil. I believe this was achieved by using a fresh chatti (an earthen cooking basin) for each batch. The frying was always even too. How that was achieved without thermostat control was a wonder. The raw material was carefully sourced from selected trees. Only fruits of a particular maturity from varikka (see: Jackfruit, the jumbo) species were used.

Eammachi used to make a whole range of chips and preserves and halwas (my favorite was papaya halwa) and savories with the same care and perfection. The store room in the ara would be full of such goodies when the grandchildren and great grandchildren visited her during holidays.

A remarkable thing about Emmachi was that she would remember each one’s preference, even in curries. But after Ichachan (my maternal grandfather) died, she became a bit disoriented and used to get things mixed up. As a result one would get something that was somebody else’s favorite. We used to eat whatever was served without any protest. What mattered most was the grand old lady’s satisfaction in watching us eat well.

Ichachan was the uncrowned (though he used to wear a turban) king of that area. Eammachi could have lived like a queen but she chose to restrict her domain to the area north of the nalukettu. One very rarely saw her in the southern portion of the large house.

The last time I saw Eammachi was when I dropped in while driving my children back to school in Bangalore after their holidays. As we were leaving she asked ‘Will I see you again?’ I told her I would visit her after a month.

When we reached Bangalore, a telegram (no mobiles those days) was waiting. It carried the sad news of Eammachi’s demise and I caught the next flight back. Even as I write this, my eyes are full.

Ends.

Also see:

Remembering grandfather

Oru Desathinte Amma.

Jackfruit, the jumbo

Giant fruits from small tree

Change in blog name - 'Song of the waves...'

Some of the returning visitors might have noticed that there is a change in the name of this blog. I have added ‘Song of the waves’ to the title. Hopefully, it should not cause any problem in accessing the site. The URL remains the same. If there is any difficulty, use the old name.

Let me explain what prompted me to do this. A recent post in ‘under the fire star’ (a must read blog; http://underthefirestar.blogspot.com/) carried the following comment: ‘Parayil A. Tharakan Blog may not have the most catchy name, but it's worth looking at. It is full of stories and pictures from a Kerala which must largely exist only in memory.’ (Well, the pictures are current.)

When I stumbled into the blogsphere hardly knowing the technicalities (a condition that prevails even now) the idea was to name my site ‘Abraham Tharakan Blog’. The label wasn’t available. It had been taken by none other than my second son who has the same name. His blog contains some good poetry (http://abraham-tharakan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2003/03/immortal-thoughts.htm). Unfortunately, he seems to have abandoned the blog. I suppose that running a division of an IT giant doesn’t leave much time for creative literary work.

My elder son, Joseph is a Chief Officer in the merchant navy. He has published some good short stories and poems. My two daughters, Rosemary in Chennai and Teresa in Mumbai are both professional editors. That leaves out my wife, Annie. She doesn’t write or edit, but attends to the other side – reading. If the number of times she has read over the books of PG Woodhouse, PD James, Ruth Randal, Anne Taylor, John Grisham and a host of other writers were recorded she possibly stands a chance to get into the Guinness Book.

Now, about the reason why I chose the name ‘Song of the waves’. It has always been there, deep down inside me, the rhythm of the waves of Olavipe Lake, the murmur of the wind on the coconut palms, the music of a pristine land.

Before signing off this post, let me thank all the readers who have encouraged me during the short time that I’ve been blogging and request for continued support.

And, here’s a photo of the Olavipe Lake repeated from an earlier post ‘Gift of the waves…’

http://parayilat.blogspot.com/2007/03/olavipe-gift-of-waves-to-kerala-gods_10.html

World War II: MAN WHO ARRESTED ROMMEL.

What General of the Army Eisenhower, the Allied Supreme Commander during the World War II, British hero Field Marshal Montgomery and the flamboyant American General, Patton, failed to do, was achieved by a doctor from Kerala, India. Or so he claimed (he is no more now). He arrested the great German general, Rommel!

1941-42. Desert War in Africa. Rommel’s Afrika Korps was battering the British. Our hero was a captain in the Medical Corps. After an engagement when his beaten unit withdrew, the doctor and a few of his orderlies stayed back to attend to the wounded.

Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. A fleet of military vehicles arrived, with a cloud of dust in its wake. The young medical officer looked up to see Rommel alight from one of the vehicles. The German commander had come to see for himself the result of the battle.

The captain realized that he was in trouble. After a moment of hesitation he walked up to Rommel with all the military élan he could command. He saluted, identified himself and said, “General [this was before Rommel was promoted as the youngest Field Marshal of Germany], Sir, I’m taking you as prisoner of war under the [appropriate provisions of] the Geneva Convention.”

Perhaps, for the first time in his life Rommel was rattled for a moment.

The doctor himself told me the tale while we were having a few drinks at my house, forty-five years back. It sounded like a structured yawn similar to one of those hunting stories. But I did not discount it totally, for valid reasons. I knew the doctor and some of his brothers quite well. The clan was always gentlemanly but could be tough if the occasion demanded it. Secondly, our hero was extremely intelligent. He had the presence of mind to realize that his only chance lay in doing something extraordinary and count on Rommel’s nobility.

That was precisely what happened. Rommel recovered quickly and said something to the effect: “You are technically correct. But there is a small problem. You have to escort the prisoner back to your camp. Are you in a position to do that?”

The young officer had to accept the logic.

Rommel gave him safe passage and helped him to get back with his wounded.

The moment in history had come and passed. Unfortunately there was no senior Allied officer on the spot to record the event and mention it in dispatches. Perhaps Rommel’s papers, some of which, I believe, are yet to be discovered, have a note about this episode.

Ends.

Public Domain photo from Wikipedia.

Also see:

Lili Marlene.

Some memories of WW II, Cochin and the 1940s.