The Promise: We’ll Meet in Falkensee
The Promise: We’ll Meet in Falkensee by June Morrall
War means not only mass death and the movement of helpless families from country to country to country–but the horrific impact leaves its mark of fear on at least one generation.
My father, Charles, was living in Shanghai when he wrote the letter to his sister and brother-in-law in 1942. Dolly and Misha were somewhere in France–the letter was sent to their last known address.
It was August in Shanghai, hot, sweaty, mosquito weather. Even the netting placed over the beds couldn’t keep the annoying bugs that nipped at you away. The damn mosquitos kept you awake all night long, hoping you wouldn’t be the unlucky one that got the dreaded malaria.
German was my dad’s first language but he typed the letter in English–the new language he was learning along with some Mandarin, which he was studying. Actually, when he attended school in Berlin, some English was taught to the students so he must have known some.
“A long time has passed since we received your few lines via the Red Cross. You can certainly imagine how anxious we are to know how you are getting on. We, meanwhile, are trying to make the best of it and enjoy our life as good as we can. We are fortunate to tell, that everybody of us is feeling quite well and even Pa does not suffer this year so much as he did last one. He has a very good doctor to whom he goes from time to time and his treatment has proved to be an excellent one. Even Ma has recovered splendidly, after she has had a four weeks rest. She almost looks as good as last year, when she returned from Unzen/Japan. Edith on her part is quite busy with her baby gabriele and she really is a wonderful mother with her baby. Gerhard as usual is trying to make a living, which certainly is not so easy nowadays. His mother suffers very much under the present and it would have been beter for an old lady like her, to be under different climate conditions. Kay works with her usual vigor and efficiency and she still is as talkative as she used to be. I have to do with my business and I feel partly responsible for the whole family…In an respect, we are looking forward to be united with both of you again and we pray that the day may be not too far off.
With our love and best wishes, CM (Charles Martin, my dad)
The letter was addressed to D. Sczcygiel in Louchon, France.
But by then Dolly and Mischa Sczygiel, who were in their 30s, had left Louchon, which had become too dangerous.
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I have to apologize for the next section because I don’t like it. The writing. It needs work. A lot of work –but I feel compelled to get something down — and then you’ll read the letters….
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My middle name is Dolly. I never used it much–well, maybe that’s just not true. I did write my complete name, all three parts when I was a kid but these days I’ve downsized to first and last name. I don’t even economize with the “D.”
In 1942 I hadn’t been born yet but I would be five years later at the red brick French Hospital in San Francisco’s Richmond District. The Richmond ran parallel to Golden Gate Park, on the north side.
Why do I mention 1942? That year my parents–he a stateless citizen, she a German citizen– were living in Shanghai, China and were married in a simple ceremony not even requiring a wedding dress. No, my mother, Kay–a lover of beautiful clothes–wore a simple hat and pretty silk dress, an outfil that could have passed for something worn to work.
I will look for the photo taken that day to see what my dad wore but I’m sure it was a suit and tie.
Kay had been living with my dad in Shanghai since 1940 when she arrived suddenly–some say unexpected and out-of-the-blue but I can’t believe my dad didn’t know she was coming. Her getting to China was not an ordinary voyage, either, not without its travails (my mother was the highly emotional type). A very pretty German woman traveling to China alone, without proof of returning to the homeland, surrounded by sinister Nazi types who couldn’t take their eyes off her terrific pair of legs. She became convinced they knew her mission (they probably were just interested in her) and were out to get her.
The terror of being found out–that she was going to join her half-Jewish boyfriend in Shanghai–and what evil things would happen to her–finally got the best of her and at Manila she fled, leaving her baggage and her beautiful clothing behind. From the way she later told the story it sounded as if she had created a minor international incident. The boat could not leave without her, without the passenger named Kay M., and nobody knew where she was. [She had gone into hiding with the help of a Jewish organization].
After more than a day or two, the problem resolved, the German ship left without Kay and my mother, sans luggage which she still lamented decades later, had to take a “tramp steamer” bound for Japan and then somehow she got to Shanghai, one day appearing at my dad’s front door. He was living in an apartment in what was called the “French Concession” at the time, a very nice part of Shanghai and he could live there because he and his family had started up the business of manufacturing silk blouses [as they had in their home town of Berlin, Germany].
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My dad had come to China with his family, on the last ship out. His younger sister, Edith, and her husband, Gerhardt arranged the way out of chaotic, violent Berlin in 1938. Late that year uncontrollable thugs tossed bricks through the windows of Jewish-owned businesses and terrorized anyone they thought was Jewish. Hours of hearing the sound of breaking glass, the screams, the smell of fear made my Aunt Edith cry out to her husband, “Get me out of here!”
All of a sudden everything became desperate. So suddenly, so desperate.
My dad and his family owned several clothing stores in the city of Berlin, and having both Christian and Jewish roots, let me say in today’s language that they found it really weird that these Nazis were running around destroying businesses and lives. To them it made no sense. All common sense was gone and they felt like were being pressed hard against walls as they tried to reason with people who had gone completely crazy, without restraint of any kind.
Although they were a close knit family, my dad and his two sisters, Dolly and Edith, my dad spent a lot of time on his own away from the family. His beloved BMW motorbike afforded him the freedom [after long work days and on Sundays]. Edith, the youngest sister, never really got to know him, she once told me. As the eldest of the three, the red-headed Dolly must have been closest to Charles.
My dad wanted to get out of Berlin much earlier. He had been drawn into scams that just took his money and no ticket to freedom. South America, that was one scam. His dream was to get into England, to classy London–there was some evidence that relatives on his father’s side had once lived there.
In the end he boarded the ship with his family, bound for Shanghai, China. If you look into the history of those last moments you’ll see that Shanghai was the only place in the world that would take these stateless people. Stateless because their passports had been taken from them.
The family wasn’t rich but they made sure they had first class passage on this long voyage to an unknown future. They did not want to be barred from any part of the ship. Anybody can understand that.
On board was my grandfather, grandmother, Aunt Edith, her husband Gerhardt and my dad, Charles.
Dolly and her husband, Mischa, made other plans. Dolly owned a clothing store in Berlin and my mom worked for her. Mischa was a successful dentist whose family lived in Poland. But since the war started one of Mischa’s brothers moved to Paris and he believed Mischa and Dolly should join him. They would be safe, he added.
[Mischa's other brother still lived in Warsaw, Poland and that city was burning, had been set on fire by the Nazi army. His home lay in ashes and he and his wife were desperate to get out, too, but unlike Dolly and Mischa who could cross the border over to France, the family in Warsaw were stuck in the fist of the war unable to move in any direction. They were doomed].
So Dolly and Mischa stayed in Berlin a little longer. They did not sail to Shanghai with my dad in 1938– who was joined a few months later by my mom, Kay, who Charles had been seriously dating but from what I’ve heard he may also had his eye on another young woman. In 1938 dad was 32 and mom was about 30.
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Now I’m looking at some pages I wrote up in the early 1990s.
Chapter One
It was a sunny, warm Sunday morning in Berlin, the 19th of June 1938. It would be a day might dad would not easily forget. He was 32-years-old, a young man, so handsome he was often mistaken for a European movie star.
[Lotte, an elderly second cousin of mine, now gone, told me when she was in her late 70s that had she not been related to my father, she would still jump at the chance to marry him. And at that time, he was older than she was.]
1938, four years after the shooting of a minor embassy official that led to the overnight categorization of Jewish people, half Jews and their relationshp with non-Jewish people.
1938, two years after the highly controversial Olympic Games were held in Berlin and A. Hitler stormed out of the huge stadium after witnessing the great American track star Jesse Owens win the Gold Medal.
June 1938, five months before the infamous “Krystallnacht” when Hitler’s crew of undisciplined thugs roamed the once civilized and romantic streets of Berlin–tossing bricks through the windows still owned by Jewish people.
On June 19, 1938 my dad was sitting behind the steering wheel of his brand new black BMW automobile convertible with burgundy leather interior. A honey of a car. Just the best. As he navigated through the busy streets, the sky a deep blue, my dad knew he would be leaving the city of his birth soon. He was looking at everything as if he had never seen the buildings, the people before but in his head he was saying goodbye.
Until now my father’s life had resembled a speckled Easter egg, with bright and dark colors. The best times were like a fairy tale–the dark moments an unbelievable nightmare.
Who would have believed, for example, that the middle child of a modest clothing manufacturer would suddenly find himself the owner of three elegant women’s clothing stores located on the finest streets of Berlin, one of the most exciting cities in Europe…? This was a life changing event for a man whose grandfather had owned a lumberyard and brick making facility.
[Social and economic mobility was not a given, a birthright in the Europe of that day or even now; stratification was rigidly adhered to].
The three stores had fallen into my father’s lap unexpectedly*. Two dozen employees reported to him, all of whom liked and respected him.
[Because I know you are dying to know how my father suddenly found himself the owner of 3 stores, I will tell you why now--but just briefly. An uncle by marriage who had owned the stores left Berlin with his wife and daughter--frightened of what he vividly saw coming he sought refuge elsewhere. Before he left he transferred ownership to my dad. I will explain all of that more fully later. As you suspect, it is complicated.)
My father was very easy to get along with, known as "the sportsman" in his otherwise close-knit family. He was the one who ached, emotionally and physically, to be in the fresh air--he was happiest when swimming and boating in the many beautiful lakes in and around Berlin.
He favored finely tailored suits, fine fabric, made to order. Cash was never a problem; he could afford the best of jut about everything.
The new black BMW convertible was stored overnight in a garage he rented near the family apartment at Number 2 Milastrasse. A man called "Rudolph" washed the car every day and brought it to my father's doorstep in the morning.
Dad's younger sister Edith also lived at the Milastrasse apartment in a room called the "Wintergarten", with a view of the street and the train that passed through on a raised platform.
The three-story Milastrasses apartment building was an architectural gem (and since "the Wall" came down in 1989, it has been classfied as an historical building), originally built in 1905 as a wealthy beer brewer's private residence. When the beer maven moved or died, the "house" was divided into three large apartments, each taking over one of the three floors.
My dad's motorbike--that gave him hours of pleasurable freedom-- was kept on the first floor.
You might get the impression that despite that horror that was happening my father was shallow or not awake-- and you'd be wrong. Before he knew the end was coming, he often reflected on his good life and good fortune. Despite the horrific backdrop and the foundation that was crumbling beneath him, he appreciated what he had. I think he tried to live in the now. He may even have hoped that something "magical" would intervene to save him and everybody else--the freedom to live, to determine the direction of his life, meant everything.
Once he told me about a strange sight he had seen on the outskirts of Berlin-- adult men in striped clothing walking in a a line. He had heard about this--that these men were Jews and other dissidents, Catholics, even, gypsys--it was an image he couldn't erase from his mind maybe because he wanted to save them but knew he couldn't as he rode by on his motorbike. I don't know. I only know that decades later that horrible vision remained.
I know how this sounds but I will say it anyway: Although his passport had been confiscated and his rights choked, dad managed to get along very well. Surely there were others who did so, too.
One reason was that my dad was classified as a "mischling," the son of a Jewish father and a Christian mother--although, by all accounts, his mother had converted. Mishlings were allowed a lot more freedom.
The German people were obedient and responded to authority, we are led to believe. My father was no exception. He respected authority, veering away from trouble, choosing a different route to work to avoid running into unpleasant situations. This strategy helped make his life tolerable.
And he told me he became one of the highest tax-payers in his section of Berlin, and, frankly, the authorities, evil as they may have been, still didn't want to put too much pressure on him. If paying high taxes was the price to stay alive, dad had the means to do so--as long as he was allowed to work.
Allowed to work...
But then a horrific event occured that frightened him into realizing that his days were numbered. His days as a living human being. He began to receive threatening phone calls at home regarding an motorcyle accident that occured years earlier and he thought had been resolved.
Imagine this: The hostile phone calls from the guy who was in the old accident demanding that the case be reopened...the defamatory slogans posted everywhere, even next door to my dad's stores...and worst of all, a group of Nazis had opened up an office next door to his apartment at 2 Milastrasse. When the windows were open he could their angry voices, shouting at high volume. Of all these horrible events, the Nazi office next door to his home convinced him he had no choice but to leave Berlin.
Although my dad lived with his parents and younger sister, Edith [Dolly, the eldest sister, had married Mischa, who was a dentist] he had always gone his own way–since he was a child. He never thought of himself as Jewish. After all, Judaism was a religion and my father was a secular fellow. Berlin was the cultural center of Europe’s most advanced country and my father was a German”bon vivant”.
My father, Charles, was a private fellow, both as a child and as a man so it wasn’t unusual or strange that my father made secret plans for a getaway without first talking it over with his family. Only his loyal cousin Aute knew in advance.
When my dad made his announcement of his sudden departure on Sunday, the 19th of June, it was met with tears, deep sadness and disbelief. [As a member of this extended and loving family, I can visualize the scene].
What was his plan?
He had it all worked out. He was driving to Hamburg where he would stay with cousin Aute’s mother, his favorite Tante Hede. She was one of the four sisters of my dad’s mother.
Tante Hede was kind and understanding and dad was sure that she and her many friends would help him to get into France or Holland without a passport. His final goal was London, a city he had grown to love from numerous visits there. Peace and freedom, that’s all he desired.
Even though he tried to keep it to himself, cousin Aute was devastated by my father’s decision to leave.He was devoted to my father. Recently wed to an older woman, he said he would greatly miss the companionship of his older cousin. They had done so many things together forging a special friendship.
Did Kay, the young woman my father was dating, later to become my mother, know of his plans? I don’t know when she found out. Could be that he told her his secret.
Dad said goodbye to his parents and left, all in the same day. I’m sure spending any more time there would have been too difficult.
As my father drove the convertible down the streets of Berlin, streets he knew so well, he welcomed the warming comfort of sunshine on his shoulders. All of his senses were fully aroused during what he believed were his last minutes in Berlin. The people walking on the sidewalks seemed more animated than usual, the surroundings more beautiful than he remembered. He internally nodded at every familiar building he passed; the city he was born in in 1906 was showing off her very best qualities.
He drove through an older section of Berlin, passing a castle that faced the Spree River. It was the palatial home of a former emperor. He approached the famous Unter den Linden, a wide promenade lined with the sour fruit of lime trees, after which the roadway was named.
The opera house he had once often frequented, the museum and office buildings came into view. When he saw the Hotel Adlon, the memories came fast because the classy international Adlon was one of the few places in the city where he could dine without being bothered by the Nazis who entered any and all other places demanding donations and looking for fights.
Just two years earlier when the Olympics were held in Berlin, my dad was at the Hotel Adlon dining with an Australian journalist who gave him special tickets to athletic events at the stadium. At that time the thought had not entered his mind that he would be leaving forever. Leaving everything behind. Forever.
At the end of the thoroughfare, he faced the magnificent Brandenburger Tor with its emblem of the eagle. A decade later, after WWII had ended, this impressive, historic gate would mark the boundary line between West and East Berlin. The Brandenburg Gate opened the way to the lovely Tiergarten, a sprawling, landscaped park covered with manicured green lawns, old trees, walking trails and magical lakes.
On this day full of life and special meaning, dad carefully watched couples and individuals leisurely strolling alont the paths, sometimes looking up to acknowledge the “stay off the grass” signs. In London, my father told me, he was amazed to learn that it was perfectly okay to trek across the lawn in Hyde Park.
Christmas, a big deal in Berlin, crossed my dad’s mind. He would miss it. Berliners celebrated their snowy Christmases with an enthusiasm perhaps found no where else on earth. All of the store windows and and homes in this great city were brightly dressed-up for the special winter occasion. It was a time of year Berliners looked forward to more than any other.
Because he believed this to be his last day in Berlin, everything seemed serene like a net of unreality covered all that came into his vision, the Brandenburger Tor, the Tiergarten……and then like a faulty software program it all crashed when he saw the swatiska, the ugliest symbol he knew. Even in the otherwise beautiful surroundings of the park, the swatiska was ubiquitous, yes, it was everywhere, even defacing the park.
My father entered the Kaiserdamm, the way to the highway that would take him to Hamburg and then London. The Kaiserdamm was a broad boulevard lined on both sides with modern apartment and government buildings, a police station and an array of retail stores.
He was deeply immersed in his thoughts behind the wheel of his car when he noticed a tall man standing on the sidewalk. Some 200 feet away a woman was trying to get the man’s attention. My father watched the scene and internally became involved with what was going on with the couple. She ran toward the curb, and chatted animatedly with the man who was probably her boyfriend. Seconds later the woman rushed back toward one of the government buildings.
When the man turned to face the traffic, he suddenly lost his balance, and at the exact moment that he tried to step off the curb, his fate met my father’s. Dad’s black BMW happened to be parallel to the curb as the man landed with a metallic sounding thud on the hood of the automobile. The car had been rolling forward slowly but the fallen man was desperately grabbing for anything solid he could hold onto. My father saw his face through the windshield, distorted by fear.
The unimagineable had happened….My dad felt he was in great danger.
Reflexively, he slammed on the brakes, not such a good idea because the man slid off the hood backwards and onto the street, striking his head hard on the concrete curbstone. There he lay motionless.
My father was stunned. He’s trying to get out of town, out of the country, and now this….but then a feel of calm and complete rationality washed over him. He’d never been in an auto accident before. That gave him the confidence he needed.
There was a commotion at the nearby police station. Two officers were walking in the direction of the accident. A clutch of people had surrounded the wounded man lying in the street. An ambulance was called.
Still sitting in his car, my dad saw a uniformed chauffeur leave his limousine and rush toward him. He was holding a business card.
“If you have any problems,” the chauffeur said, glancing at his limousine, ” please contact this man. He witnessed the accident and knows you’re innocent.” Then he was gone.
My dad recognized the name on the card–it was the name of a high-ranking Nazi official.
He didn’t know what to make of this and he couldn’t see the official sitting in the car across the street but he felt a little more confident–after all, he was trying to get out of town and he had just been involved in an accident and he had Jewish roots, and all of this taken together, put him in great danger.
[In Berlin, in 1938, if an accident occurred the driver remained seated in the car so my father sat behind the steering wheel, waiting for the police]
By now a crowd had gathered on the street, some of them watching from a distance while others tried to comfort the injured man. Blood trickled from the wound on his head. The young woman, who had been talking with him before the accident, was kneeling at his side.
[Note: I've made a mistake which I will correct later--but my father was not alone in the car. His cousin Aute was with him, and Aute was a nervous, insecure sort, perhaps not the best person to be with my father during a crisis, as this certainly was. I don't remember how far Aute intended to go with my dad, all the way to Hamburg, or not? That will all be fixed at some point. So now i'll be bringing Aute into the story--remember, he's been sitting beside my dad in the convertible all along. Oh, by the way, while my dad had Jewish roots, cousin Aute was from the "Christian" side of the family.]
The accident, the injured man, the chauffeur, the crowd on the sidewalk; to my dad and Aute it seemed surreal. And maybe this feeling that a play of sorts was unfolding before him, protected my dad from completely freaking out. On the other hand, Aute, was fretting, obviously terrified.
The police station stood a few yards away and two officers from “Traffic Detail” had arrived and closed off part of the street. One officer walked over to the victim; the other officer checked the surface of the road for any sign of brake marks. Then he headed over to my father.
After introducing himself as Officer Glan, he asked for my dad’s version of the story. He seemed satisfied with the answers.
“I’ve seen the short brake marks,” Officer Glan said, “and measured the distance from the curb to where the car was and your story seems accurate.”
That was a relief. The cop was going to treat him fairly, so far anyway.
The ambulance arrived and Glan watched the men put the injured–and so far unidentified man–on a gurney, and he was transported to a nearby hospital.
“I want to check the mechanical condition of your car,” Glan said, sliding into the front seat. “Please drive me around.”
Cousin Aute who had been sitting next to my father was very happy to get out of the car and make room for the policemman. He waited on the sidewalk. Uniformed officers always made him nervous.
“Drive straight ahead,” Glan was overly polite. ” Speed up. Stop. Go slow. Go fast.”
After driving around for 15 minutes, Officer Glan proclaimed the beautiful vehicle a healthy machine–no surprise as the BMW was my father’s pride and joy. He kept it immaculately clean inside and out [for those of you who are familiar with my often dusty Coastside car--I'll give you this, unlike me, okay?]
“Please come with me while I write up the report,” Glan told my dad. They walked over to a police van parked on the street equipped with a table and two benches. Cousin Aute was still happy to be standing on the street.
Dad had to produce his driver’s license. The cop stared at it for an inordinately long time but dad knew what was coming; it was the question that was asked all day long; in fact it defined the era.
“What’s you religion? Are you Protestant?”
“I’m Jewish.”
Dad told me that when Officer Glan heard the word “Jewish” he abruptly rose from his seat–but promised to return in a moment.
Now what?
Left alone with his thoughts in the unfurnished van, my father’s thoughts could have been dark but he was worried about his cousin Aute. Knowing how nervous he must be feeling–he hoped Aute wasn’t talking to the authorities. But there was nothing he could do while trapped in the van.
When Glan walked back into the van he said, “I had to tell my partner that you are Jewish.” Then he added the terrifying news that the injured man was an SS Elite Officer, a sergeant assigned to the Chancellor’s office, working directly under Adolph Hitler.
The guy who fell on my dad’s convertible was an SS Officer.
But then–a huge surprise. Officer Glan said he wanted to protect my dad from the obvious consequences of the accident.
[Family members have suggested that my dad may have offered the cop a bribe at this point--because my father did not record such an action in his memories and I believe he would have. I believe something else motivated Officer's Glan's humane actions.]
The ambulance was long gone and Officer Glan’s partner, whose name I do not know, was questioning the woman who had been with the injured man. It turned out she was his fiancee. Glan now appeared and told the young woman that my father was a respected businessman in Berlin. She was also told that he had many connections and could do her future husband’s career great harm. My father was extremely upset about the delay, he added. She was persuaded to keep quiet–and forget about reporting the accident–to anyone.
“I’m giving you good advice,” he added.
To my father Officer Glan said, “I know the accident isn’t your fault–but if the SS man discovers you are a Jew, nobody will be able to save you.”
So the cop, for his own personal reasons, went out on a limb for my dad. I’m sure that was more common than we know.
My dad was ” blown away”. He thought, “Someone is watching out for me. Why is this cop so sympathetic? How else can this be explained?” This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time, that he felt the invisible hand of fate protecting him.
Regaining his official posture, Officer Glan ordered my father to drive him to the hospital. By now nervous cousin Aute had also joined them, climbing into the back seat. I’m sure that during the ride Glan got to know more about my dad.
But when they arrived at the hospital, Glan told them to wait for him in the car. He went inside alone to inquire about the patient’s condition.
“That was a close one,” Aute said in a shaky voice. “We’re lucky the cop was on our side.”
Then they analyzed what could have happened had Officer Glan sided against them. My dad would have been accused of deliberately running down an innocent SS officer. Dad and his cousin would have been sent to jail and then the “KC” {Konsentration Camp).
But Officer Glan reappeared with a big smile on his face. “The injured man will have to stay in the hospital for a few days,” he reported. Then a bit more enigmatically, he said, “He has been warned and the case has been sealed airtight. The couple isn’t going to do anything. The authorities will hear nothing of it. They’re anxious for no publicity–and they thank you for agreeing not to sue them for damages.”
….They thanked my father for agreeing not to sue them for damages….
The cop asked my dad to drop him off at a street near his home. “I have to be careful because I don’t want the neighbors to see me getting out of a private car,” he said.
After the crisis both dad and his cousin agreed the accident was some sort of a sign warning him that the trip to Hamburg and escaping the country was ill-timed. He decided to return home to the family residence on Milastrasse.
Aute was delighted. “It’s the wisest thing to do,” he said.
He was probably going to have to stick around anyway–whatever the arrangement with Officer Glan may have been.
When half-an-hour from the apartment my dad found a telephone and called his parents, telling them about the accident. They were relieved and when he and Aute walked into the apartment there a celebration was beginning. The family, relatives and friends which could number more than 50, started arriving and the table was set with an array of fresh cold cuts, breads and beautiful cakes. The delicioius food was placed on long table which was actually a work table, a cutting table for making clothing–but it was so big that it doubled as the dining room table.
This is how one of the stranger days in my father’s life ended.
I have no idea how my dad was going to handle vanishing when he still owned and operated three women’s clothing stores in Berlin. I suspect they would be closed by the authorities.
But the morning after the car accident my father opened one of the stores [I'll plug in which one later]. Officer Glan phoned and arranged to meet my father the next day.
When they met, Glan told my father there were some legal documents he’d have to sign. But that wasn’t the real reason for the meeting.
“Would you drive me to a cemetery outside Berlin? My father is buried there.”
It was a drive that would take several hours both ways. How could my dad object? They drove off and when they stopped for lunch Glan poured out his story. His sister was married to a Jewish man, he revealed. They had left Germany to live in South America. And that was why he had so much sympathy for my dad.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Glan said. “We have a tough time with the Nazis in the police department. They try to control us but we will resist their efforts as long as possible.”
How fascinating to think that the police were not single-minded robots; that perhaps lives were being saved everyday by those who hated the politics of Hitler.
At the cemetery dad waited in the car while Glan paid his respects to his father. On the trip back to Berlin my father asked if there was anything he could do to repay Glan’s kindness. “A new dress?” he suggested. This was the perfect thing and it was a done deal.
Weeks passed before my father heard from the cop again. This time he delivered really bad news–then said it had been solved. For some unexplained reason, the case had been transferred to the court house at Alt Moabit–an infamous building that also housed prisoners. He solved it by personally going to the building, getting the documents and burning them in his cellar.
How courageous!
Now all evidence relating to the accident had been destroyed. It never happened.
At the same time the relationship between Officer Glan and my dad ended. Glan told my father never to contact him again. He wasn’t going to but he felt a sense of relief knowing that there men like him who thoroughly opposed the evil policies of the Third Reich.
In the meantime my father resumed his regular schedule working all week, taking off on Sundays to row his boat called the “Ellen” at one of many magical lakes. But life was getting edgy–it had even become too dangerous to bring his girlfriend Kay, brought up as a Lutheran, to the boathouse where he kept “Ellen.” Finally he stopped paying the monthly storage fee and abandoned the rowboat that had brought him so much joy.
[Kay, my future mother, was brought up in a working class part of Berlin. Her mother, Emily, was a WWI war widow. She was a very religious Lutheran. As a young woman Emily, a farm girl who moved to Berlin, had married Ferdinand, a musician, and they were very much in love. He went off to fight WWI and in the most shocking event was shot dead on the last day of the war in France. Emily was left to fend for herserlf and her two children, Kay and Kurt.]
Not until a very rainy day in Berlin did my father notice the extent of damage that the accident with the SS man had caused to his BMW. Little rivers of rain water seeped inside the windshield where the man had fallen. The glass window wasn’t cracken but the frame holding the glass had been bent out of shape.
It was unlike my father not to have repaired the windshield–but he knew his days in Berlin were numbered and that the convertible would not be coming with him.
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Chapter Two (The Backstory)
On June 3, 1906 my father was born Martin M….. in Berlin, then a city of more than four million people. Martin’s parents–my Oma and Opa–Luise and Sammy–already had one daughter they named Dolly born two years earlier. It was amusing because Dolly’s hair was red, a color never before seen in the family leading to speculation about where she might have come from.
Sammy, a Jewish man, met Luise, a Christian woman, when she was working as a seamstress in Sammy’s sister Mika’s workshop. Before or shortly after Sammy and Luise married, Luise converted to Judaism.
[I personally don't pay much attention to anyone's religion--and while growing up in San Francisco never thought about it when forming friendships-- but it was very important in the early 20th century Germany I'm writing about].
Martin, my dad who later changed his name to Charles, told me he always felt closer to his mother’s family. “I knew I was one them,” he said strongly. “I belonged to them.” The feeling of where he belonged was so powerful that, whenever possible, he preferred to avoid his father’s family.
Ironically Sammy, Martin’s father, my opa, was born on the same day [but not the same year] as Hitler: April 20, 1879. His home was in the province of Posen, then a part of Prussia. Sammy’s father owned a lumberyard and a brick manufacturing company.
[Not to give the impression that my dad didn't like his father, he loved him very much].
For a reason that my father could not recall, the Emperor of Germany honored his grandfather with a special medal. He thought the medal was lost but through a relative living in Holland I was able to track it down to distant family in South Africa. A letter brought no response.
Sammy’s family was huge; he was one of 13 kids. Eight survived including five boys and three girls. I don’t know what happened to the others. As a child, Sammy lived with an older married sister but he longed to get to the big city of Berlin that he had heard so much about from his older siblings. His favorite sister Mika ran a successful business there and his brother Jacques owned a wholesale men’s clothing attire business in Stettin, north of Berlin. Of all his sisters, Selma was the most successful, on her way to becoming rich as the owner of a very fashionable women’s boutique in the Central Hotel on Friedrichstrasse near the busy railroad station.
Selma’s sophisticated husband, Willie–who would later play a pivotal role in my father’s life–was a silent partner in his wife’s boutique business.
My oma Luise’s family grew up with four very different sisters who went every which way. The maternal side of the family traced recent roots back to England and Alsace Lorraine, a French territory until annexed by Germany in WWI (?)
That was what my father loved most and dreamed of, that his mom’s family came from England, a place where he would have felt very comfortable living and working.
Wilhelm, Luise’s father, was born in Neuruppin inn 1858. As a young man he moved to Berlin, working as a stonemason for low pay ten hours a day. But he felt lucky to be working at all when so many others were unemployed.
Luise’s parents were classic Germans–members of “Die Alten Deutschen,” a dance club who looked forward to waltzing with their friends on Saturday night. That’s how they met, Luises’s mom and dad, Ernestine and Wilhelm, at one of these evenings–and after marriage they kept dancing until well into their 60s.
In the early years of their marriage, Ernestine and Wilhelm lived in a small apartment on the top floor of a building in a blue collar area of Berlin. Wilhelm’s work was seasonal so when he wasn’t working as a stonemason he opened a tiny grocery store selling fresh fruit, vegetables and coal to help support his five daughters. The coal was delivered by handcart–an unpleasant task during the winter months when the deep piles of snow stopped traffic from moving. He solved the problem by training a dog to tow a sleigh holding the coal.
When they were teenagers, Wilhelm’s five daughters, including my oma Luise, went to work as seamstresses. It was the natural choice as the manufacture of women’s apparel was flourishing in the center of Berlin. And one by one each of the sisters got married. Their parents, Wilhelm and Ernestine, no longer needed a large apartment and rented a much smaller one with a large balcony where the married daughters and their growing families gathered on Sundays.
Of course this was real life and not all of the sister’s marriages were successful, happy choices. Fickle Tine,for example, left her husband and moved back into her parent’s apartment, bringing Lotte, her bouncy, spirited little daughter with her. [I mentioned Lotte earlier, in another context--she always adored my father and had she not been related would have married him. She grew up to be a little ditzy, but sweet, as you can see.]
Now that Tine and her daughter were there the apartment suddenly shrunk in size so a new, larger apartment was rented. The famous weekend gatherings continued and everybody came including my oma, Luise, opa, Sammy, and their children, Dolly, Martin and Edith, the third child born in 1910. Bearded Wilhelm sat at the head of the long table, covered with the traditional cold cuts and homemade goodies–and his daughters had learned how to bake the most delicious, professional-looking cakes and cookies.
Wilhelm was a pipe smoker who liked to discuss politics but when the discussion became too serious, my dad and cousin Lotte would run outside and play with the neighbor’s children in the street. This felt like freedom to them.
Everybody knew when it was time to leave: Grandfather Wilhelm got up and wound the old clock on the wall by pulling on the chain which made a “rat rat rat” sound. These pleasant family gatherings were the happiest moments my dad could remember, gently warming his skin like an intimate embrace long after get-togethers were no more.
Remember my father was part of a religiously-mixed family. His mother’s background was Christian; his father’s Jewish. My dad’s father was loved by everyone except for Luise’s sister Martha; she did not like Sammy and that dislike became evident after Hitler came to power. Then it was quickly learned that Martha, her husband and even her kids could not be trusted.
When my dad was a kid, his mom and dad lived north of Berlin where many of the apartment buildings were four stories tall and the rooms small. The German bureaucracy was highly advanced. No detail was too small to keep track of. All new residents had to report to and register with the local police station. That information was forwarded to the next level, the Prasidium of Police.
If you wanted to move, you had to report that. Landlords were required to register the names of their tenants with the cops and any associated official documents had to be kept and shown upon request. Every birth and death was recorded. There was no anonymity: every member of the community was known by name and address to the police.
You got used to the bureaucracy; my dad, his family, neighbors–nobody knew anything but obedience from having to comply but in those days nothing bad happened so why question filling out endless papers and keep them in a handy drawer ready to show to any official who came calling.
Dad’s parents operated a moderately successfuly blouse and dress-making business, with headquarters in their small four room apartment. They had to be ingenious to make it work and so they converted the largest room into a workshop where several professional seamstresses sat working at sewing machines. Two other women just did needlework but they all worked from 8 am to 6 pm every day but Sunday, their only full day off. On Saturdays the sewing machines became silent at noon.
The family also hired housewives looking for extra cash who worked part-time in their homes.
When looking back decades later, my father voiced amazement that they were able to juggle business and a loving family life in such a cramped, crowded space.
His mother Luise designed and cut the fabric on a long wooden table that doubled as a dining table. She had talent and it was no secret that she studied the cut of very expensive dresses, skirts and blouses displayed in the best windows in Berlin–and then with the design in her head or sketched on a pad, went home to make her own version of what she liked best.
There was a division of labor in the household and at the end of each work-week Sammy set out to make the deliveries of finished pieces. Wrapped in a cloth package, he took the garments on the streetcar to the wholesaler, waited to be paid, and was given a fresh bale of cloth.
My father often talked about the German economy and I will try to explain what I think he told me…but I may very well be getting it all wrong. He said that although the victorious allies of WWI imposed a huge war debt on Germany, helping to undermine the fragile country’s economy, it didn’t affect his family’s business. A demand for high quality, moderately priced women’s silk blouses remained–and Luise excelled at this. The family worked day and night; they were busy and the hard work paid off.
Not only did they produce good work but they were well liked, friendly, warm people. Like Sammy, my dad also delivered cloth wrapped bundles containing dresses and blouses to wholesalers. He recalled one event that highlights how others thought of my dad and his parents. He was a teenager in 1921 when he delivered finished pieces to a company run by a middle-aged, wealthy couple. They had no kids of their own and had become very fond of my father. They knew he had parents but they talked about adopting him anyway–probably a little joke–and they reminded him that the offer was still good each time they met.
But this time something else happened. When dad arrived, the owner was sitting talking wth a distinguished man sporting the kind of goatee favored by intellectuals. The man with the goatee was Fritz Ebert, President of the Republic of Germany, and the owners liked my dad so much they were anxious to introduce him to the president.
“Mr. President,” said the owner, “may i introduce the son of one of our best ‘contractors’. We want to adopt him.”
I get the feeling President Ebert was smiling when he asked, “How old are you? You probably love your parents, don’t you?”
My dad didn’t tell me how he answered the president’s questions but he did note that Fritz Ebert passed away at a young age and that there was plenty of speculation surrounding his controversial death.
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Chapter Three
Sammy’s brother, Jacques, had preceeded Sammy to Berlin and he had been in the clothing business longer. He ran his own wholesale business and regarded himself very highly, a super salesman, he said. Now he convinced his younger brother Sammy to go into business with him.
Without knowing or having ever met Jacques, I guess you could say Jacques was half- bluster and Sammy was more down to earth and stable.
Together they rented space in the center of the city’s apparel district. The new space was big enough to house the workshop in my father’s family’s cramped apartment. This also gave my dad the opportunity to work elsewhere and he apprenticed at a large export company that often sent him on business trips to London. He was there so much that he dreamed of furthering his education by attending school there. London was where he belonged, he believed. He started saving money and making plans.
But Sammy’s brother Jacques could not hold up his end of the business. He continually made errors because he thought more of his selling abilities than he should have. He loved to travel to see new customers and stayed in the best hotels, ate at the finest restaurants, stacking up bills without signing up new clients. It was no surprise when the brothers filed for bankruptcy–leaving Sammy with only one sewing machine.
That was the end of my dad’s dreams, too. He had to quit the job at the export business and return to work for his parents. In the meantime they had hired Karl to deliver the finished pieces wrapped in awkwardly shaped burlap, balancing the bundles, as he rode crowded streetcars and buses to the offices of wholesalers.
Karl was a very good employee but he had to be let go when my dad returned which made him feel very uncomfortable–so helped Karl find another job. By now my father owned a motorbike and he could make the deliveries in good or bad weather, even rain, dressed in his protective leather outerware.
Daily life seemed to slip back into the routine he knew so well, working for his parents and spending days off in the countryside. But nothing stays the same for long, does it?
One day on his way home after a routine delivery, my dad was driving his motorbike when he made a full stop at an intersection. He was waiting for a streetcar to pass before making his left-hand turn. He knew there was a car behind him; he could hear it coming but instead of stopping, the car hit the back of his bike, striking him hard enough to nearly knock him off the seat.
The accident shook him up–as it does anyone who’s involved in one.
When the driver got out of his car to survey the scene, he seemed nice and amenable, even apologizing and promising to pay for all damages. He admitted it was his fault.
A few minor parts of the bike had to be replaced and the frame and rear wheel needed to be repaired. The motorbike was not a cheap model; it was a BMW. The mechanic’s bill came to 95 Marks or about $25.
The bill was sent to the man who caused the accident and he suddenly refused to pay. Recourse was to have the case heard by the Automobile Club of Germany, of which my father was a member. The club’s attorney filed the lawsuit and the judge, who was Jewish, ruled in my dad’s favor, requiring the defendant to pay in full within a month. The man refused to pay, forcing the “court” to seize his dining room furniture. By then the charges had doubled, including court costs.
Finally dad got his money and he thought the whole thing was behind him–but it would return to haunt him later.
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Chapter Four
After the bankruptcy filing, Sammy and Luise had to start their business all over again, from scratch using the one sewing machine that remained. According to family legend, Sammy purchased a few yards of rayon and Luise designed a brand new dress. With the beautiful sample draped over his arm, Sammy carried the piece to the Ost Indien House, where he and the gorgeous sample dress were warmly greeted–leading to a big order and payment in advance.
Flush with cash, they were able to begin producing more blouses and dresses. Things got even better when the Hamburg branch of the Ost Indien House also placed a large order. With the money, Sammy purchased new sewing machines and hired back all the old employees, the women who worked full- and part-time.
The good news kept piling up. Now it came from Sammy and Luise’s landlord who said one of his tenants was moving from a roomier apartment at #2 Milastrasse. Do you want to take it? he asked.
Do you want to take it?
#2 Milastrasse was a three story building that after WWII would stand in East Berlin. It was a lovely building designed for a wealthy beer brewer whose factory was located nearby. Each of the floors had been rented as an individual apartment–spacious rooms, tall ceilings, 12 foot high windows. A china cabinet in the dining room. A handpainted dome ceiling. A large kitchen, fireplace, sitting room, music room and the “winter garden,” surrounded by windows, perfect for exotic plants where my dad would sleep. His sister, Edith chose the “tower room” with its oval shaped leaded windows.
#2 Milastrasse became the center of many happy family activities. The atmosphere was warm attracting not only the full complement of relatives but their many friends, too.
Martin and Edith’s beautiful, fashionable older sister Dolly did not live with them because she had been married to Misha, a Berlin dentist, and they had own comfortable apartment.
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Note: I want to remind my readers that there are errors, repetitions and inconsistencies in the copy, there are missing descriptions, and that I am going to go back over the story and fix it later. This is a real work in progress. I hope you are enjoying it.
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Chapter Five
When my father’s parent’s “shop” closed around noon on Saturday, he took off with his best friend Paul J–. My dad described him as a special friend, an only child, a humble man and skilled mechanic who worked for the Otis Elevator Company. He had one vice and that was smoking. He knew it was affecting his health and he wanted to stop but couldn’t.
This kind of thing wouldn’t be a problem for my father who when he decided to do something he cared about, anything at all, he set out to master it. One of the nicest things about him was that he could turn a bad situation into a good one and that strong trait got him through life. If he lost something precious, he didn’t dwell on it, knowing there would be other lovely things or moments coming along. That was his secret….
His friend Paul love to drift into sleep, dreaming and sleeping for hours, sometimes for the entire weekend, getting up only to light a cigarette, take a few puffs and close his eyes again. If he had to choose between work and sleep, guess which one he preferred?
Paul and my dad Martin, shared a deep respect for motorbikes–but the could admire them afar because neither young man owned one. It was Paul who suggested they share the down payment of one bike that cost 1600 Marks–in this way my dad became the very proud owner of one new red motorbike with a shiny chrome tank. Until it was paid off in full the boys plunked down 100 Marks per month. After the first one was paid off, they began saving for Paul’s bike.
I guess my dad was the leader of the two.
Now they weren’t dependent on public transportation, on the railroads and streetcars, the motorbikes gave them real independence. They could ride wherever they wanted, with the wind blowing in their hair, the gorgeous German landscape reflected in their vision–other than a beautiful woman, what more could a young man want?
They wanted to see their country, they loved the outdoors and the bikes and their backpacks provided the ticket to many short trips. They visited rustic areas with isolated lakes and also historic towns like Rostock on the Baltic Sea, a colorful setting dating back to the Middle Ages.
On one trip Martin and Paul motorbiked out of Berlin on a Saturday afternoon, passing through the blur of many German villages, on two-lane “highways”, some in poor repair. There were other travelers on the road riding older bikes and it was thrilling to pass them with their newer models. They were heading for the seaside town of Rostock.
The sun was an orange ball low in the sky when they flicked on their headlights and my dad’s bike started making strange, grating noises. Metal on metal.
The men had to stop while Paul checked the bike’s moving parts with a flashlight–in the meantime the problem healed on its own and they resumed their trip arriving near midnight at a small six room hotel and restaurant. On the road there was a man standing beside his car with the hood up. He said he waas out of gas and needed just a little to make it to the nearest pump.
Paul dismantled his fuel line and filled an empty cup with gas and put it into the stranger’s empty tank. These were the rules of the road.
The next day my dad, Martin, and his friend Paul woke up in the historic town of Rostock overlooking a scenic harbor and the beach at Brunshaupten. This was their first trip to Rostock, their first adventure with the two motorbikes– and as Sunday was their only day off they didn’t have much time but they liked it so much that they intended to return in the future. But now they had to get back to Berlin before it grew dark.
One mystery was solved as they got on the highway. They found the source of the problem that caused my dad to worry about his motorbike. Workmen had resurfaced the roadway with a layer of gravel and a cluster of the small rocks had become lodged in the wheels of my dad’s bike. He was relieved to know that nothing serious was wrong with it.
The “exploratory” trip to Rostock was such a success that two young men talked about investing in leather saddlebags. Paul went to work designing a “suitcase holder” for the long distance rides.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the great city of Berlin, it was raining hard and the slick road conditions caused Paul’s bike to slid, throwing him off the bike–but he only suffered minor injuries and recovered quickly.
Martin’s close relationship with Paul, who lived in my dad’s neigbhborhood, made cousin Aute feel left out. And, by now, Aute had married the older woman. My father often wondered if Aute was ready for marriage which he thought of as a very serious commitment. Before he married, Martin and Aute spent many hours and good times in the cafes of Berlin–and even now, when Aute was married, he still liked to frequent the bars.
When Saturday rolled around and my father’s parent’s business closed down for the weekend, Aute would turn up alone at their home/shop. Then, together, Martin and Aute would take off for late night drinking bouts–but my dad, who was moderate in all ways, told me he was always the first to go home. Aute, who suffered or enjoyed his melancholy, stayed on drinking until the early morning hours.
Owning a motorbike change my dad’s life–and since Aute didn’t have one, and he was a married man, Aute felt left out. Was left out. Aute finally went his own way becoming the father of two successfuly kids, both boys. Aute did get a job which required him to drive a vehicle with a sidecar–and according to my dad, the independence made him a happier man.
My dad had another good friend, Victor, the guitar-playing athletic son of circus performers who counted actors among their many acquaintances. The thing about Victor was that he was always late, very unusual for a German kid.
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Chapter Six
One of my dad’s favorite cafe-bars was called the Red Mill. He and Victor went there often and one time he met Kay, my future mother there. She had long thick brown hair and was sitting at the next table.
Kay was vivacious, full of life, smiling and laughing all the time. She and my dad became a couple. Of course she passed the test: she loved riding on the back of my dad’s motorbike. As a couple they loved going to the theater and opera, Kay preferring the singing and music of the lighter, shorter operas.
I’m not sure if Kay and Martin met before or after he owned the three women’s stores. There would be a big difference in his finances after he acquired the three stores. Often they formed a threesome, Kay,Martin and Paul or Kay, Martin and Victor. It was a lovely time in their young lives; they were in their early 20s–and Kay became a welcome part of dad’s life.
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Chapter Seven
It was September, almost fall some time in the 1920s, when Martin took a week’s vacation at a remote place he called “the paradise of all the lakes.” Dad was going with Victor and another friend, a stocky fellow called Werner. As usual they had to wait for Victor who was late but they couldn’t go without him because he was the owner of the 20-foot oak rowboat called the “Ellen.” And rowing the “Ellen” was how they were going to get around the lake.
They arrived at the boathouse late in the afternoon which wouldn’t leave much rowing time. There was only an hour of light left when they had to head back to shore where they had pitched a tent. But they got up early the next morning and spent all day with the “Ellen” navigating the complex network of waterways surrounding Berlin. Narrow canals were like arteries linking to fresh life, lake after lake. Young Berliners loved their water and the sun (maybe because it rained a good deal). At times it became so quiet that the only sound was the swish swish of the oars. Life was sweet.
They swish swished toward Spring Lake, a remote place far from civilized Berlin. On the way provisions were purchased at Scharmutzel Lake, cold cuts from a country woman delighted to be doing such “big business” during the off-season. To show her appreciation, she offered Martin, Victor and Werner homebaked fruit cake and strong coffee.
It was hard to find the entrance to beautiful, secluded Spring Lake; it was narrow and well hidden but finally they recognized a landmark and found themselves alone in paradise. The lake was crystal clear and calm with patches of white sandy beach and dark green trees embroidering the edges. The lake was also ice cold but that was going to stop them from swimming in it. They pitched a tent and Victor built a fire and made a meal of spaghetti and tomatoes. It was a chilly evening and the three young men slipped on heavy woolen sweaters and played cards in the tent to keep warm.
They were having a great time until an insect bit Victor’s lip causing it to swell and swell. He couldn’t smoke and that made him grumpy. They knew they were going to have to get some first-aid supplies from someplace because they had forgotten to bring anything like that. Running out of food provided the incentive to leave paradise.
They started walking, heard dogs barking and saw a house. The farmer- owner came out and told them where the nearest store was located–an hour away by horse and buggy, he said. As soon as he noticed Victor’s swollen lips he suggested he visit an herbalist less than 15 minutes away.
It’s time for me to tell you that I agree with you that “we”–you and me–are getting tired of these young guys rowing on the lakes of Germany…in search of what? Believe, drama lies ahead but I am ready to move on–I’ll have to see what I can do about that…
There was a financial turnaround in Victor’s life and my dad ended up buying his rowboat from him. Now he and my future mother, Kay, took off on their own adventures searching for their own “Shangri-la.” During a long holiday weekend called WhitSunday (the seventh Sunday after Easter) when the weather was glorious Martin and Kay thought they had found their “Shangri-la”. They discovered a deserted lake hidden deep in the forest.
I can just smell the trees and see the lake.
My dad was the experienced swimmer; my mom never learned the pure joy that being in the water brought to the entire body and soul.
It was here in Shangri-la that my dad’s bike again began to fail him–this time making a “putt putt putt” sound. As you know he wasn’t the mechanical type but he did check this and that but he couldn’t turn over the motor and ended pushing the heavy bike over the forested path littered with the corpses of many birds, an eerie sight. My mom and dad got scared and hoped they hadn’t lost their way; they hoped they weren’t stuck in the woods with all these dead birds.
But all the fears melted away when they met up with a man who directed them to a house in the distance. He assured dad he would find help there.
And he was right. The fellow at the house knew all about motorbikes and fixed my dad’s (it was a loose connection) and sent Kay and Martin off on their adventure. They passed farmers in horse-driven carts before reaching a hamlet where they were greeted with joy as the residents rarely saw anyone from Berlin. They checked into the guesthouse and the owner’s son showed them nearby gorgeous Raetz Lake where two expensive homes stood at the water’s edge. One of them belonged to a director of the Mercedes Benz Corporation.
As soon as he got home, my dad told his friends about the gem he and Kay had stumbled upon–and Victor told his family who told their film actor friends who began spending weekends at the Shangri-La.
Decades later Martin reflected in words on these happier, carefree times. He called himself a man in his prime in Berlin.
“There is a time for everything,” he wrote philosophically. “Once it fufilled its purpose, run its full circle, it will be forgotten for a long time. When my lifestyle changed, I forgot completely about my good friends out there in Shangri-La, never to write to them again. Later, when the political upheaval started, I thought of them often, wondering how they may have been affected. I never found out.”
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Chapter Eight
In 1932, one year before the infamous, far-reaching Nuremberg Laws were passed, limiting relationships between religions (Jews & everybody else) as well as classifiying Jews, Wilhelm, my father’s much loved grandfather fell ill with pneumonia and passed away. He had been working in the “subway”, doing repair work in the tunnels, dangerous work, naturally, as the tracks were so close to the walls.
When a train came to a stop, Wilhelm had to quicky stop work and seek safety against wall. And every ten minutes or so a train came, each time exposing him to a heavy draft of “windy air” brought on by the speed of the train. It doesn’t take much imagination to realize that this was a way to easily become ill and he did, beginning with the cough that developed in a far more serious illness.
There was a warm gathering of friends at Wilhem’s funeral, including members of the Alte Deutschen Club, where he and wife Ernestine had enjoyed dancing the waltz. Ernestine died a few years later.
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Chapter Nine
Kay was born on October 27, 1908 in Wedding, a working class neighborhood near Berlin. She lived there with her widowed mother, Emily and younger brother, Kurt. Kay was a tall, lovely young girl with dark brown hair, which, when she was a kid she wore in two thick long braids. She received complements on her hazel eyes that turned a pretty shade of green in a certain light.
In an earlier chapter I mentioned that Emily’s handsome, mustachioed husband, Ferdinand, a talented musician, had joined the army during WWI. He was promoted to an officer but very sadly was killed while riding atop his horse in France in the last days of the war in 1918.
Kay was ten when her father died and his death carried a huge emotional toll–not to mention the financial impact on the family. Kay’s pretty mother, Emily, who had clear blue eyes, came to Berlin from the countryside where her family had owned farmland. Emily found work as a maid, the only labor available to a young girl.
After Ferdinand’s untimely death, his children vehemently resisted the idea of their mother remarrying. So she remained a lifelong widow. Kay went to work at 14 after graduating from grammar school. She always insisted that the education she received was of a much higher quality than what we in the US usually think of as grammar school.
My mother Kay was bright, quick and prone to criticize others, including me.
For two years she was in training as a saleswoman at Hermann Tiets, a big department store on Brunnenstrasse, the corner of Veternenberg Strasse in Berlin. She told me an experienced Jewish saleswoman taught her how to sell anything.
“If a lady wants a red dress, and you only have the dress in blue, you must sell her the blue dress,” the senior saleswoman taught my mother, a lesson she remembered forever.
After the two years internning, Kay quickly researched the pinnacle of her profession, earning good commissions.
…more…