May-June 1940: The Exodus in a Peugeot 402 Longue/Familiale

     As I mentioned earlier, the taxi my grandparents used to escape the invasion of Western Europe might have been a Volvo PV 802, which, according to an internet source I found somewhere, was the more likely candidate out of the two possible models, so planned for the taxicab to be a Volvo.

    Well, I've changed my mind.  I've decided that the other possible model, a Peugeot 402 Longue (long), also called a "familiale," is the one I'm going to go with.  Here is why:

Peugeot 402 Familiale retrofitted with a wood-gas generator.

According to Wiki:

    In 1939 Peugeot were already investigating the adaptation of petrol/gasoline engines to run on gas created by the controlled burning of charcoal. The technology would prove particularly suitable for the long bodied Peugeot 402 ... On the car it was possible to fit the necessary components without excessive modification of the bodywork. A charcoal burning boiler, able to accommodate 35 kg of charcoal, was mounted on a stout platform at the back of the car. This provided sufficient power for approximately 80 km (50 miles) before more charcoal needed to be taken on board. The controlled burning of the charcoal produced carbon monoxide, known as gazogène, which was captured and transferred in a stout pipe mounted on the outside of the right-hand C-pillar to a roof mounted gas tank. From there another stout pipe mounted on the outside of the right hand A-pillar drew the gazogène down to the engine. Between 1940 and 1944 more than 2,500 Peugeots were equipped with a gazogène fuel system.

    My grandfather helped develop that very fuel system!  On a memorial page to him, it says, "Before World War II he worked on the development of devices generating motor fuel from coal," and I took that to mean he worked on Coal Liquefaction technology.  But when I looked back at a copy of his CV, I found the following: "In his first job, he worked on the development and manufacturing of a gas generator used in wartime for the propulsion of civilian buses, trucks, and cars. Gas, produced in the generator from coal, charcoal, or wood, was used in conventional internal combustion engines."

    Gazogène fuel systems, also known as wood-gas generators, burned wood or charcoal, which creates a producer gas, a mixture of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, hydrogen, and methane. It's filtered and then piped into an internal combustion engine. But you could run a car for about 50 miles with 80 pounds of charcoal. Not very efficient, but better than nothing in a world without gasoline.

    When writing stories, you try to reuse characters and themes as much as possible to create an interconnected world. This model of car was particularly well-suited to a wood-gas fuel system, and when installing the system, Arthur would recognize the car where he spent two miserable weeks of his life.  It's a connection, not between people, but between artifacts

    Anyway, here's a video that thoroughly explores a 1936 model (it's in German, so if you don't speak the language, you can leave the sound off). Just skim through it to see the interesting bits, including how the jump seats fold down from the back of the front seats. You'll also notice there's a lot of leg room without them, but almost none when they are in use.   It shows the gas tank, the trunk space, and even how you access the engine compartment (the panels lift up on either side of the engine like gull wings).   

1939: Teofila's Brooch

Source: DropofDifference. Used with permission.

 My great-grandparents on my mother's side lived in a very similar manner. They also owned vast amounts of land, which was cultivated by tenants.

--Liliane Lubinski McCullar, 1955

    I grew up hearing stories of my great-grandparents, who had been very wealthy, but lost nearly everything (I think) during the depression that followed the stock market crash of 1929, and what remained was confiscated after Poland was invaded by the Nazis in 1939.  But there is family lore about my great-grandmother Teofila's brooch, a bit of inherited wealth that she held onto as long as she could. Supposedly, it had two big diamonds and many small diamonds.  

    Anyway, her son Jakub was a brilliant student, a mathematical prodigy, and he wanted to study physics and engineering, but wasn't allowed to study at the University of Poland due to the racist numerus clausus policies implemented across the nation.  But Teofila's husband, my great-grandfather Isak, was opposed to Jake leaving Poland. She didn't agree, and to fund their son's travel and living expenses for his studies at the University of Brussels, Teofila sold one of the big diamonds without her husband's knowledge.  

   When Isak found out that his own wife had given Uncle Jake the means to leave, Isak got so angry that he hurled a big ring of keys across the room, smashing a bunch of glassware in the process.  My grandma was present; Roma was their youngest child, and she would have been about 12 years old at the time. Grandma told us later that she had never seen her father act with such violence before. She (understandably) found it pretty scary.

    Then, around 1928, when Uncle Jake wanted to get an advanced degree from a school in the United States, she sold the second big diamond to send him to America. That's why he was able to ride out the war in the United States (he became a citizen in 1942) while the rest of the family was trapped in occupied Europe.

    We know what happened to only one of the smaller diamonds. It wound up in my Grandma Roma's possession, and she brought it with her to the United States in 1947, and wore it on a ring. I don't know for sure when her mother gave her the diamond, but I think perhaps it was during Roma's last visit to Teofila in Łódź in late August 1939, just days before the invasion of Poland.  We don't know what happened to the rest of the small stones. Did she give them to Roma, who was pregnant at the time? Or did she use them to buy safety for herself, her husband, and her oldest daughter, Lola?  Or were they just confiscated by the Nazis?

    Anyway, I do my best written descriptions when I can SEE the item I'm describing, and in this case, I imagined a glammed-up snowman (or figure 8) surrounded with diamonds like an aura, and that struck me as being quite ugly.  I also had no idea what jewelry styles from the 1800s even looked like, so I did some internet searches ("vintage brooch two big gemstones surrounded by small gemstones") for a piece of vintage jewelry to use as a model for Teofila's brooch, because the sparkly snowman design just wasn't doing it for me.  I eventually stumbled on the one in the picture in an Etsy listing.  It's massive, about 3.5" (8 cm) tall and 2.6" (6.5 cm) wide, and it is almost certainly much larger than Teofila's actual brooch, as the remaining small diamond was much smaller than the ones shown.   

Source: DropofDifference. Used with permission.

    The Etsy listing describes it as an antique setting from the 19th century (Georgian/Victorian), a sterling silver and quartz brooch. You can see more pictures here (many thanks to Marie from DropofDifference for granting me permission to use her photos).

    I imagine Teofila would have sold the bottom diamond first (because she could have the entire dangling part removed, and it would still be a nice brooch) to send Jake to Belgium, then the big central diamond to send him to the United States.  I like to think my great-grandfather changed his mind about the wisdom of his son leaving Poland. Isak and Teofila Najfeld died in 1942, but I imagine they were glad that at least one of their children was somewhere safe.

Spring 1942: The Miller's Tale (deleted chapter)

     Then, at nighttime, the grain which I got, I put in a buggy, which I pushed myself, a couple of miles to the mill. The mill was a water mill, and the miller took half for himself, and half he gave back to me in form of flour.

--Arthur Lubinski, 1988

    As I write (and in this case, re-write) the book, I try to imagine what the mill and miller were like. I read up a little on water mills, and I found myself totally geeking out about how they worked.  And if I geeked out over this ancient technology, then I'm certain my grandfather would have, too.

    However as much a I love this scene, it doesn't move the story forward (like at all) so I killed off my darling (an intimidating miller) and his super cool mill.  Enjoy.

The Fountain Mill in Beaumont-lès-Valence

The Miller's Tale

    Very late Saturday night, he loaded the winnowed grain, which now filled the big bucket and was quite heavy, into Mr. Durand’s cart and took it to the miller.  The mills were monitored too, but less stringently.  Perhaps because flour was more perishable than grain?  

    Mr. Durand told him that the miller ground the illegal flour at night, and to avoid suspicion, he also regularly ground legal flour at night.  

    When he got close to the mill — he could hear the river — he left the cart in a small stand of trees and, trying to be surreptitious, approached the mill.  The lights were on, and the wheel was turning, though he realized that did not necessarily mean the mill was in use; a gear inside could probably be engaged or disengaged to turn the millstones. He walked in a wide circle, looking for signs of surveillance but saw none.  He picked up the bucket, lugged it to the mill door, and knocked.  

    The miller opened the door.  He was a big man, but unlike most Frenchmen, he was merely trim and not skinny. He was dressed plainly, wearing an apron over his work clothing. He looked at Arthur and waited for him to say something.  When Arthur did not speak, he finally asked, “You have some grain?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, bring it in.”

    Arthur carried the heavy bucket inside and set it down.  He gazed at the huge stone wheels at the room’s far end.  There were two, one stacked on the other, with a metal shaft rising from the stones and into the floor above, and a second, massive wooden shaft stood next to the millstones, extending floor to ceiling.  

    Before the miller started on Arthur’s grain, he explained the rules. “I take 50% of whatever I grind illegally.”

    Arthur stopped looking at the millstones and gave the man his full attention.

    The miller went on. “Yes, I use it to keep my family well-fed and comfortable because they are more important to me than anyone else in France, and in these Godforsaken times, I should be well-paid for the risk.”

    Arthur was not accustomed to such plain speech about dangerous activities, particularly from a stranger.  Having no idea how to respond, Arthur simply nodded at what he hoped were the appropriate times.

    “The leftover, however, I give to the very hungriest of people. It is in your best interest to never tell anyone what I am doing for two reasons: One, word gets around, and no one else will grind grain for you, and two, because there will be reprisals.  I feed many people, and they will be … disappointed if their flour source disappears.  Do I make myself clear?”  The miller stepped slightly closer and stared into Arthur’s face.

    Arthur was intimidated, which he knew had been the miller’s intent. “Very clear, yes. I have no intention of talking about you to anyone.”  Arthur also realized that the man was risking his life, so perhaps his threats were appropriate.

    “Good. Nice to meet you.” The miller stuck out his hand. 

    Arthur realized that the handshake was not just a greeting but a promise, an agreement.  He shook the miller’s hand.

    After releasing Arthur’s hand, the miller hooked the bucket’s handle to a chain hanging through a trap door in the ceiling and hoisted it up through the opening. He then climbed a ladder to the floor above. 

    He could hear the miller dump the grain all at once into a hopper, which he guessed was metal from the sound.  The miller descended the ladder to the basement, where he apparently engaged a gearing mechanism, and the upper millstone began to turn.  “May I come down to see the machinery?” he called.

    “Of course!” the miller answered from the floor below.

    Arthur climbed down and found the miller affixing a flour sack to the bottom of a chute.  Arthur examined the system of gears and grinned. It was ingenious. He knew from his studies that the Romans had designed the apparatus two thousand years ago. Modern engineers had merely improved it.

    The miller caught Arthur’s smile. “I see that you admire it.”

    “Yes. I am an engineer. We studied the technology a little at University.”

    “Then you’ll be interested to know that 20 years ago, I converted it from a breast shot wheel to a backshot, which increased the efficiency from 50 to about 90%.”

    “You are an engineer, too?” Arthur asked in surprise. 

    “No. I studied engineering for a year, though. My father wanted me to finish, but when he got too sick to run the mill, I came home.  But, I’m smart enough to know a good idea when I see one.”

    Flour started pouring down the chute and into the flour sack.   When the grinding was complete and no more flour came out, he disengaged the gears. He carried the flour to a set of big scales and removed half, which he dumped into a barrel.  He handed Arthur the sack of flour. “Save the sack for next time. Supplies are limited.”

May-June 1940: Eight People and one baby packed like sardines into a Volvo PV 802 taxicab

    I rented a taxicab – and in the taxicab, big taxicab: Roma and myself and the baby Lillian, a few days old, and my father and my mother, and Felicie, who was like family, and in addition, the cab driver and his wife and a child, were all squeezed in one big taxicab.

--Arthur Lubinski, 1988

    During the 1940 Exodus, my grandparents escaped the invasion of Western Europe in a taxi, traveling from Brussels to Montreuil-sur-mer, a trip that normally took three hours, but took them 2 weeks.  Most refugees were on foot or bicycles; cars, while there were enough of them to clog the roads (particularly after being abandoned due to lack of fuel), they were comparatively rare.  However, my grandfather had several serious issues to deal with: his wife was one week postpartum, his father was elderly, and his mother was late middle-aged and had tuberculosis.  I imagine that he felt there were only two choices:  either stay in Brussels as it fell to the Nazis, or find transport that would allow them to ride.  They took the second option, but probably should have taken the first, given that they ended up returning to Brussels six weeks later.

    Anyway, they needed an eight-seat taxi: seven adult passengers and one child (plus a newborn, but she rode on my grandmother's lap).  There weren't that many taxis in 1940 that carried 8 passengers. There were a few American models that did, and a few of them were imported (primarily to southeastern Europe), but they were uncommon in Belgium and France.  I did find two eight-seat European models, though: the Volvo PV 802 and the Peugeot 402 Familiale.  Both are essentially six-seaters, but with additional seating that could fold out as needed.

    Of the two models, research suggests that the Volvo was perhaps the more likely vehicle. The pages I looked at didn't explain why it was more likely, but I'm going with it. (Added: I changed my mind and am going with Peugeot).

Click on any photo to enlarge.

The Taxi:

1938 Volvo PV802. Volvo Museum. Photography by Serhii.
See the end of the article for more pics of the car.

    It had two large bench seats (front and back). The foldable jump seats were situated between the two rows of seating, and could be tucked away when not in use (though the legroom surrounding the jump seats must have been minuscule).  It was also designed to be a small ambulance - the right side of both bench seats could fold down, and a stretcher could be loaded through the trunk.  (If you are interested, there are more photos of the taxi at the end of this article.)

    Note: Belgium didn't have standard taxi colors in the 1940s. It could have been any color.

The Travelers: 

    This little band of travelers spent about six weeks together, first on the road, then as refugees on a dairy farm in Montreuil-sur-Mer, France.

    First, we have the taxi driver, his wife, and their child. Their names have been lost. I know they existed, but I have no idea who they were or what happened to them after they returned to Brussels in June of 1940.  I named them Marc and Violette D’Abruzzo, and their 9-year-old son Robert.

    But the rest of the people in the car were my family (photos from their Belgian naturalization files):

Great-Grandfather Herman Lubinski,
circa 1926.

    The 63-year-old Herman was a businessman who owned his own agricultural commodities trading company. He was resourceful, but he did a poor job of planning for the future, spending money freely when he was flush with cash, only to face periods of complete financial hardship when he ran out of money.   Eventually, (in 1941 or 1942), his business was seized, and he was imprisoned in Breendonk concentration camp, but he miraculously escaped (!?!) and survived the war by hiding in a retirement home.  

Great-Grandmother Micheline (Mascha) Lubinski,
circa 1926.

    The 58-year-old Mascha Lubinski was a highly intelligent woman who led salons in her home, inviting philosophers, artists, and scientists to discuss the great topics of the day.  My grandfather was very close to his mom and credited her with making him the generous, ethical, and hardworking man that he became.  She contracted tuberculosis at some point and survived the occupation by feigning mental illness and hiding in an asylum.

Félicie Turska, circa 1931

    Félicie Turska, aged 46, served as a housekeeper for Herman, who fell in love with her.  He married Félicie after Mascha's death. I think she was a lovely woman, but she looks high as a kite in the photo.  And my great-grandfather Herman must have had real chutzpah to travel with both his wife and his lover in the same taxi. Can we say tense and awkward?

    Interestingly, Herman's sons (by his first wife), Arthur and Paul, had different attitudes toward Félicie. Arthur resented her for her relationship with Herman, while Paul seemed to have accepted her as his stepmother, and my cousins in Belgium tell me she was very kind and that she was the only grandmother they ever knew.  

My grandparents, Arthur and Roma Lubinski
at the time of their 1935 marriage

   

    Ohmygod. My grandfather's hair!!! It's so ... tall!  Even before he lost his hair, he kept it short and much neater than in this photo (according to the family album, anyway).  

1938 Volvo PV802. Volvo Museum. Photography by Serhii.

1938 Volvo PV802. Volvo Museum. Photography by Serhii.
Note the rear luggage rack (most didn't have that) and the dinky trunk.

Recipe: Roma's Neighborhood Soup (AKA: Chicken noodle soup with egg drops) - Meaty and Meat-free Versions

     My grandma, Roma Lubinski, was a fabulous cook, and when my mother and aunts were growing up, Grandma Roma often found herself with a bunch of neighborhood children running through her house. Having gone through the deprivations of WW2, she simply couldn't allow a child to go hungry.

    So, she invented an inexpensive, fast, and easy soup that someone dubbed "Neighborhood Soup" (because she was feeding the neighborhood!), and the name stuck.  My mom, her sisters, and all of their friends loved it, often requesting the soup if they happened to be visiting. It is also great when you're feeling under the weather.  

I emailed my mom and aunt and got the recipe, and now I'm sharing it with you. 

Note: I'm still refining the recipe, so it might change a little over the next few weeks.

Egg Drops (both versions below):

My grandmother's recipe was based on the Austrian dish Eierflockensuppe, or "egg flake soup," in that she mixed flour into the eggs before dropping them into the boiling broth.

Beat 2 eggs thoroughly. Add 1 tbsp of water, and 2 tbsp of all-purpose flour into the egg mixture, and beat well.

Bring the soup to a gentle boil, and drizzle the egg mixture into the broth, stirring slowly and occasionally. For chunkier egg drops, spoon them in without stirring.  If it gets crowded, just push the already hardened egg drops aside to make room. Simmer for 3 minutes and serve.

Instant version (meaty):

Prepare egg drops (see above) and set aside.

Make Lipton Chicken Noodle Soup according to the manufacturer's instructions.  After the soup has simmered for 1-2 minutes, add the egg drops. Simmer until the noodles are cooked, and then serve.

Homemade version (meat-free or meaty):

I've been a vegetarian for 25 years, so when I got a hankering for Neighborhood Soup, I developed a meatless version, which is a little more involved since pre-made vegetarian chicken noodle soup mixes don't exist.  So, from scratch it is. However, for those who eat meat, use real chicken and chicken broth, where the substitutes are listed: 

• Chicken substitute of your choice, preferably one that doesn't have breading (I like Gardein chicken products, but small cubes of tofu will do in a pinch). 
• Carrot, 1 large, sliced
• Celery, 1-2 stalks, sliced thin
• Onion, 1small, roughly diced
• Frozen peas (optional) - 1 cup
• Garlic, sliced - to taste (lots!)
• Fat (butter or olive oil) - 2-3 tbsp
• Umami flavor to taste (about 1/4-1/2 tsp of MSG, or 1+ TBSP of miso, or 1 tsp mushroom umami seasoning blend)
• Seasoning to taste (1/4 tsp - 1 tsp of some or all of the following: turmeric, rosemary, thyme, red pepper flakes)
• Better than Bouillon No Chicken Base
• Fine egg noodles - 6 ounces
• Parsley, finely chopped - 1/3 cup fresh, or 1 tbsp dried
• Chives, chopped - 1/4 cup (optional)
• Fresh ground black pepper - to taste
• Lemon - squeeze a tsp or so over the top of each bowl before serving (optional)

1. Prepare the chicken substitute as per the manufacturer's instructions. Cut it into small chunks and set aside.
2. Prepare egg drops (see above) and set aside.
3. Place carrot, celery, onion, and fat into the bottom of the soup pot, and saute until slightly browned. 
4. Stir in umami flavoring and seasonings, and 4 tsp of Better than Bouillon (this is about 1/2 the amount called for on the jar, but it's very salty). Add the peas if using.
5. Add 8 cups of water and bring to a simmer. Taste the broth - if it's not flavorful or salty enough, add additional Better than Bouillon base, 1 tsp at a time, until it tastes right. Bring to a simmer, and cook until carrots are almost soft.
6. Add egg noodles and cook at a full boil for 1 minute.
7. Add egg drops (see above) and cook for 3-4 minutes (the noodles should be slightly al dente). 
8. Add the chicken substitute, black pepper to taste, parsley, and chives.
9. Ladle into bowls and squeeze a little lemon over the top of each bowl.

Note: You can use whatever size or style of noodles you like, but you will need to adjust the timing somewhat - add the egg drops about 3 minutes before the end of the noodle cooking time.

Nobody Goes There

 Prompt - Nobody Goes There (300 words): “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded. “– Lawrence “Yogi” Berra, The Yogi Book: I Really Didn’t Say Everything I Said (1998). Use this paradoxical line as the catalyst for your story.

***

    Jenny went to her support group, as she did every Thursday.  A support group for introverts with severe social anxiety was something of a paradox, but they made it work by placing dividers - spoke-like - between the chairs.  Jenny could see the people across the circle from her, but they were comfortably distant. She couldn’t see the people on either side of her, and that was helpful, though their voices were annoying, loud, and … close.

    The problem with being an anxious introvert, as far as Jenny could tell, is that humans need contact with others.  Without it, they shriveled up inside.  Hell, babies that didn’t get held enough could actually die.  And Jenny was so lonely.  Soul-suckingly lonely.  

    The therapist spoke up. “This week, I’d like each of you to go to a state park and walk the trails.”  

    The person to Jenny’s left cleared their voice and then spoke up. “With the pandemic restrictions being lifted, state park usage is up 800% in Minnesota.”  It was John’s voice.  “Nobody goes to the parks anymore. It’s just too crowded.” John was plain-looking, but his eyes were very kind. 

    Despite repeated encouragement from her therapist over the last year, she’d avoided asking him out, but now the loneliness was overwhelming her. 

    Jenny’s favorite state park was far to the northwest, hours from any metro area, and she knew it wouldn’t be crowded.  Her heart pounding, she pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote John, I know a park that won’t be crowded. Maybe we can go together? - Jenny, and passed it around the divider. 

    A minute later, he passed it back. Her legs felt rubbery, and her stomach clenched as she unfolded the note, wondering if a yes or a no would be worse.

Jenny, I would love that. Saturday? - John

--June 21, 2021