Tobacco - Fun Stuff?

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHAT ABOUT CIGARETTES

Many men rolled their own cigarettes long before the GIs came. Few smoked cigars, I guess they were not readily available. Many smoked pipes. The elders of the town showed off their long hanging meerschaum pipes; the younger men much smaller and sportier ones. Cigar stubs found their way into a pipe and totally used until they turned to ashes. Nobody chewed tobacco or dipped the stuff, between cheek and gum, like they do in the United States. 

Snuff, finely ground tobacco, existed and actually was sniffed up the nose. When the need for a dip came, as Beisser Opa called it, he, with greatly exaggerated and somewhat elegant motion, reached for his silver snuff box, which he kept in his left, inner, jacket pocket. 

After he tapped the box with his knuckles to knock off any snuff stuck to the lid, he’d flip it open. With the precision of an orchestra conductor, he removed a pinch between his thumb and two fingers. He then flipped the lid closed with his pinkie finger. Carefully, he’d return his treasured, little box into his breast pocket. All these theatrics were always evident before the pinch of snuff was placed on the backside of his left hand. With great expectation he slowly raised his hand to his nostrils. His head slightly raised, eyes half closed, he gave one good snort up one nostril taking about half the dip, the other nostril likewise received the rest.

Since a kid couldn’t get hold of any real tobacco, we made our own smoking tools and hunted stuff to smoke. 

We began by making our own pipes. Corncobs we never heard of. No one had ever seen or eaten any corn. Where we lived bamboo or reeds did not grow either, but elderberry bushes did. 

We reamed out the elderberry branches’ pithy center for the stem of our pipe. The pithy stuff of the stem was removed with a wire. We shoved the wire through and pulled it back and forth to increase the hollowness of the stem. 

The bowl of the pipe we carved from the thick branch of the elderberry bush reaming it out with our pocket knife. We then drilled a hole in the side of the bowl with the sharp point of the knife and stuck the two parts together. 

The tobacco substitute we decided on, after experimenting with various dried leaves, was that of the horse chestnut. Some smelled a bit better than others. When we tried to inhale it made our eyeballs almost pop out. None of the stuff we smoked tasted good, and all left you spitting for hours. 

Smoke we did––with spit and tears flying in all directions. 

The closest thing in form to a cigarette, or thin cigar, was what we called Judenstrick or Jewish rope. It is the dried vine of a wild grape. A similar vine here in the States is the Virginia creeper and the possum grape vines. 

The vine grew on banks and in gullies. It grew thick, climbing the trees, and often totally covered small bushes. 

The hollow and shaded underside of these mounds of tangled vines made a perfect hideaway for us boys. One such particular hideout was entered by crawling on our bellies. Once inside, the dark and damp made it very private. We only allowed our closest buddies to a secret fort like that; the ones we trusted to keep their mouths shut. Of course, any clandestine operation done in the vine fort would have warranted a whipping from our parents. Smoking was one of these operations. 

The walls and domed ceiling of the hidden den consisted of years of dead vine; all of it good to smoke. All one had to do was reach out with our pocket knife and whack a smoke. The section between knots in the dried vine made the perfect cigarillo. It was porous, and air could be sucked through it. All we had to do was light up one end and sit back. 

The dry vine stayed lit and even sported a little stub of ashes on the end. Just like a real cigarette. We sat around exhibiting various stances and techniques to hold the weed, imitating the grownups and their cigarets. Some folks held theirs between two fingers. Others held their cigarettes in their mouth all the while dodging the smoke from getting into their eyes. We felt grown and quite in control. 

The trouble however, after one or two smokes, the bitterness and smoke of the vine seemed to dry up the saliva glands. The mouth became parched, and the tongue swelled. After we killed our taste buds, we crawled out into the day. If anyone observed a bunch of boys hanging around the water pump, coughing, spitting, they sure knew what we had been up to.

So, then the GIs came to town. They held their smokes with thumb and two fingers, the lighted end facing in. They flipped their cigarette butts all over and created in us an urge to do some real smoking. All we had to do is circle the squad tents and gather all the cigarette butts without looking like chickens picking beans. You might say we boys were in butt heaven.

We were not the only ones to sheepishly pick up the discarded butts. I believe the older boys and even some grownups did the hunt and gather mode as well. With four of us boys collecting butts, we soon had a small tin can full of loose tobacco. 

Since none of us were allowed to be caught with this taboo substance, we decided to bury the tin can in our secret hideaway. We set a date, a non-school day, for the great Bavarian Smoke In. 

A week or so later, the day of all days arrived. Plenty of the real stuff buried and ready. All the practicing we did finally will be tested. The occasion is surely going to elevate us into the world of manhood. 

I remember sitting in a circle in our secret den, each one of us prepared, with either pipe or roll-your-own paper. Matches were on hand and ready to start the grand experience. We unearthed the tin can and carefully pried open the lid. All eager eyes strained to stay focused on that metal box. The box holding the long sought treasure. The lid popped off. What? . . . A strange, fuzzy haze of light blue and green stared back at us. Our much heralded stash had totally molded––grown a green beard! 

I have never longed for another smoke since that day.