16
Damn Yankee
I SPENT THE NEXT DAY, like many other days, wandering the streets of Berlin. I noticed my shoes were beginning to wear out, which didn’t surprise me. My aim was to avoid the police and the Gestapo, which I could only do by moving around. I couldn’t afford to become too familiar a face in any one spot, since attracting official attention could be deadly. I still had the Gestapo ID that we had stolen, but I presumed that by now the Gestapo must have discovered that it was missing and would be on the lookout for anyone attempting to use it.
As I walked, I constantly scanned the faces of people around me, ducking into doorways whenever I saw police or SS patrols. Sometimes, when I reached the point of absolute exhaustion, I would go to a park and sit on a bench. This was breaking yet another law. The benches read “No Jews Allowed” and Jews were forbidden to even enter the parks. I didn’t care. I was a fugitive, no longer wearing a yellow Jewish star.
I thought a few times of keeping a diary, but each time I quickly abandoned the idea. If I were caught, the Gestapo could use the diary against me and those who had helped me.
My list of allies had been whittled down. In Berlin, I now had only Paul Richter’s apartment for shelter, but the last time I had been there an incident occurred that dampened Richter’s enthusiasm for helping me. A Wehrmacht patrol had come to his apartment house, looking for an army deserter. They’d been tipped off that this man was hiding in Richter’s apartment building. When they knocked on his door, they were advised that he and Regina were blind and obviously couldn’t identify anyone. The army patrolmen accepted their explanation and left, but the experience had left Richter reluctant to have me around. They asked me to stay away for a while, until some time elapsed or the deserter was found.
So in Berlin, I was completely on my own. Life got especially difficult whenever it rained. I could go into the U-Bahn subway or the S-Bahn and spend the day riding around, but I had to be extremely careful to avoid attracting the attention of the Gestapo.
But today it was a clear day, so I stuck to the streets. I wandered up toward Humboldt University, the foremost university in Berlin. I loved this area of the city. I had always found it to be interesting. The main state opera house was right there, as was the national library.
I wandered into the Bebelplatz. This was a large outdoor plaza between the university, the state opera house, and the national library. These institutions were the foremost of their kind in Berlin and formed an area of academic resources the equal of any in Germany. Since I was a little boy, I had dreamed of attending the university; I had always found going to school to be exciting. But the Bebelplatz held another type of meaning, not only to me, but to all Germans, because of what occurred there some ten years ago.
One of the few families with whom my parents had socialized were the Switzers. They lived close to us. Hans, one of their sons, attended the university. He was always encouraging me to read and study, hoping I would follow him to university one day.
On May 10, 1933, I returned home from public school and found Hans waiting for me. He had time, he said, to take me to see the national library. Being too young to go by myself, I was thrilled at the prospect.
In those days, the Bebelplatz was called the Opernplatz. As Hans and I approached it, we could not help but notice a tremendous pile of books in the center of the square. Even as we watched, storm troopers and university students continued heaping more books on the pile, shouting and chanting their slogans.
Hans asked one of the bystanders what was going on. “There will be a book burning tonight,” he said. “Dr. Goebbels has ordered that books by Jews and other undesirables be collected from libraries and bookshops.”
“I cannot believe this,” Hans whispered softly to me, in horror. “I have to see it.”
Sometime after darkness set in, a large procession of thousands of people, many carrying torches, gathered in Opernplatz. As Hans and I watched in amazement, some of the students doused the books with cans of benzene or gasoline. Everyone was shouting, encouraging each other. Huge smiles plastered the faces of many of the people standing around as they screamed for the burning to begin.
Two of the students then put their torches to the huge pile of books. The whole thing exploded into a column of flames many feet high. More books were then thrown onto the pile, with the names of the authors being shouted for the amusement of the crowd.
The site of the 1933 book burning. Books by about six hundred Jewish authors and others who had been declared degenerate by the Nazi party were burned in a huge bonfire here.
I was too scared to say a word. It was my first experience with the power of a mob, and even though I didn’t completely understand what was going on, I did realize I was witnessing something monumental. As it turned out, it was indeed a historical event. Some twenty thousand books were burned that night in Berlin as Nazis tried to exorcise the spirit of Jewish scholarship from German culture.
After another few hours, I decided to walk toward Hirschfeld’s apartment. I’d been to see him a week earlier to sell another stamp, and now was as good a time as any to collect the proceeds of the sale.
I walked up the steps of his apartment house and knocked on the door. Within a minute or two, the door opened.
“Dagobert. Come in,” Hirschfeld said as he opened the door, waving me inside.
A plaque lists the names of the authors whose works were burned. It is attached to the post in the previous picture, where the bicycle is parked. The first line reads: FORBIDDEN, BURNED, PERSECUTED.
I went back to the living room and walked next to the couch near the stamp albums and reference books.
“Sit down. I will be right with you,” he said, leaving me there to go into another room.
He returned in a few minutes and presented me with an envelope that contained almost a thousand marks. I silently thanked God for my father’s ingenuity and foresight.
With little more in the way of conversation, Hirschfeld escorted me to the door. A cold man, I sometimes thought, but then again, this was wartime. I did, however, want to find out if he knew of anyone who might be willing to put me up. It didn’t occur to me to ask him if I could stay with him. I knew what the answer would be. With as much civility as I could summon, I thanked him for his assistance with the sale of the stamps and inquired if he knew of anyone who might be willing to hide me for a time.
Hirschfeld looked at me and muttered “Hmm,” and scratched his head. He looked up at a corner of the ceiling, then got up and very slowly walked around the room. I waited, watching him. There was a bemused look on his face that made me wonder what he was up to. Finally, he spoke:
“Dagobert, I may have something for you. I would have to contact them first myself, though. I would not feel comfortable sending you to them directly. Come back in two days.”
Again, this come-back-in-a-few-days business. It was frustrating, but I had nothing else to do.
“Two days?”
“Yes, Dagobert. Two days,” he said succinctly.
“All right. Two days then,” I repeated.
“Yes. See you then,” he said, never one to waste too much oxygen on conversation.
I gathered that this was my cue to show myself to the door. I thanked him again and walked toward the door. I turned around and gave a single wave, to which he absentmindedly nodded his head.
I roamed the streets of Berlin for the rest of the day, searching for a building to sleep in. I eventually found one that seemed suitable. Dreading the cold that my blanket could no longer protect me from, I chose a corner to sleep in and went out to find food. I went into a bakery and bought more sawdust bread, using up another of my bread ration cards, then on to the butcher’s for more salami. This was a monotonous menu, but it was the best I could do at this point. I had no place to cook or store anything.
After two cold nights sleeping in that little corner, it was time to return to Hirschfeld’s. I had not washed since I had left the Kusitzkys, so I stopped by one of the circular pissoirs. Washing in a public restroom was too conspicuous, but I did manage to splash my face with water from one of the troughs and smooth back my hair.
Arriving at the Hirschfeld residence, I knocked and waited. Hirschfeld soon answered, waving me in. As usual, there was little chitchat and no exchanges of niceties. I sat there and waited for him to speak.
“Dagobert, I know of a small auto repair shop, specializing in electrical systems. It is run by two people whom I have met a few times over the years, a husband and wife team.
“The owners are Jehovah’s Witnesses. They believe in the Old Testament, as do we. However, they don’t recognize national symbols like the Nazi flag. Recently, this couple sheltered someone who was living illegally in Berlin. I don’t know if that person was Jewish or not, but I know that they did this. This person has left and they are in need of someone to help them in the shop. I approached them and asked them if they would be interested in having you. I told them I knew of a young man with a mechanical background and they were very interested. Here is their address. Go visit them and see if things will work out.”
He then walked over to me and handed me a sheet of paper. I looked down and read it. “Stoltze,” it said, and then gave me the address of a shop. I looked back up at Hirschfeld. “You are certain that they would be helpful? They would not betray me?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe it would be all right,” he said. “Why don’t you go now?”
As usual, Hirschfeld was not going to waste much breath with me. It would have made me feel better if he could somehow have been a bit more effusive in his enthusiasm for this couple. But again, I could not expect any more of him. He had already been kind enough to give me their name, I told myself. I had no reason to believe that Hirschfeld would wish me harm in any way. Still, it was difficult to push down my fear of betrayal.
Nevertheless, beggars cannot be choosers and I had certainly been demoted to a member of the begging class. I made my way out of the apartment and started off for Stoltze’s shop. I would arrive near closing time, to avoid the presence of customers who might overhear our discussion.
Just before they were about to close, I went inside the shop. I walked into the small office where a woman was sitting behind a desk. It was a simple place with the basic equipment and materials required for the business, but nothing more. There were several types of testers, an armature lathe, arbor presses, and other miscellaneous tools.
After a minute, the woman, who looked to be in her mid-fifties, looked up at me and asked, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said. “I was sent by Herr Hirschfeld. Are you Frau Stoltze?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at me quizzically.
“Herr Hirschfeld suggested I come to see you and talk to you. He said that he had already told you about me,” I said, praying that all that was true.
“Yes,” she said again, without seeming to want to say more. So far, she was reminding me of Hirschfeld in her verbosity. Then she rose from her chair, “Please wait a moment, I have to call my husband,” she said.
She turned and went out of a door behind her. I could see her walk over to a car and bend down to talk to someone underneath. After a few moments, she stepped back and a man emerged. He was a skinny fellow with brown hair and a long nose. He also looked to be close to sixty years old. He wiped his hands and headed back toward the office with her. I continued to stand there, in front of the desk, waiting for them and hoping.
When they came back into the office, the man was still wiping his hands. After he had cleaned them to his satisfaction, he said, “I presume you are Dagobert.”
“Yes, I am,” I said, stretching my hand out to meet his. In all the time I had been a U-boat, I could recall no one who had extended me this courtesy. This was a far cry from the treatment most Jews had received while we were living legally in Germany under Hitler. No German in the gun factory would have shaken my hand. I was clearly Jewish and thus lower-class to them.
“Herr Hirschfeld has told us about you,” Herr Stoltze said. He went on, “Tell me more. What kind of work have you done? I want to know everything about your life, as much as you can tell us.”
Herr Stoltze spent some time questioning me about my life and my mechanical knowledge. After several hours of this, he took me to see his shop. As we walked around the floor, Stoltze would point to the various machines and ask me about them. After another hour or so of this tour and questionnaire, Herr Stoltze asked me to come back into the office.
I obeyed him gladly. An hour ago, I had been glad to stretch my legs. Now after roaming around the shop for another hour, I was looking forward to sitting again. Sitting was a precious luxury, I had come to understand. U-boats on the run do not get to sit much. Most of their time is spent wandering the streets on foot. One never feels comfortable sitting for long in public.
“Sit down,” he said. I took the chair across from Frau Stoltze’s desk. “You seem to be an intelligent young man. I am convinced that you are who you claim to be, a refugee running from the Gestapo. That being the case, I will offer to help you on two conditions. The first is that you do whatever work we request of you, no matter when or what. We need help in our business, so you have come at a good time for both of us. Secondly, while you are here, you are not to talk to anyone other than ourselves and then only when we are alone. No matter who comes in and tries to talk to you, you must pretend to be mute.”
I looked at him eagerly, quite happy with the offer he had made me.
“Is this all right with you, Dagobert?” Herr Stoltze asked.
“Yes, yes, it is fine. I am happy to do everything that you say and more than glad to not have to talk to anyone. I think it is a good strategy and I will be a very devoted mute,” I said wholeheartedly.
I was happy that this would be a mutually beneficial situation. These people were taking personal risks by having me here. If they needed my help, they would be motivated to protect me. I was constantly nervous about the danger I was in. Good Samaritans or not, I knew that any individual under stress might accidentally slip and cause great harm to me. The more isolated I was, the safer I would be.
Frau Stoltze took me out of the office, through a stockroom, and down some steps into what appeared to be a cellar. “This is where I keep my fruit and vegetable preserves,” she said, speaking for only the second time the entire evening. “It is a little cold here but I will bring you lots of blankets, and we will bring down a cot for you to sleep on. You won’t be able to leave our shop much, but we will feed you and take care of you in exchange for all of the hard work that I know you will do.”
I stood there, grateful and amazed. I would have a place to sleep, with enough blankets. I would have three meals a day! I did not care if I didn’t see daylight for weeks on end. I was thrilled and I looked it. Anything above and beyond bare survival was a luxury for me.
I spent the next three months there, quite satisfied to be totally cut off from the outside world. I wrote a letter to the Kusitzkys, explaining that I wouldn’t be back for a while and asking them to tell Ilse and Klaus. I missed them and was worried about them, but I was very happy to have a secure place to sleep and eat.
There was always the chance that someone would question me about why I wasn’t in the army or ask for my identity papers. But I was totally isolated there, never leaving the shop for any reason.
The Stoltzes were pleasant people to work for. We talked from time to time, mostly about Hitler and the Nazis and about their experiences living as devout Jehovah’s Witnesses in the Third Reich. They frequently condemned Hitler and the Nazi party. They thought that Hitler was the great Satan. Of course, they only said this type of thing to me, never in front of anyone else.
Most of our conversation was about the work we were doing. I worked very hard with Herr Stoltze, servicing the cars and trucks. Most of them were civilian, belonging to small businesses.
I spent most of my time doing maintenance work. Installing starters and generators for cars and trucks was a big part of the business. No one was able to buy new cars, of course, so the starters, like other moving parts, would break from wear.
I saw the clients on a daily basis, but they always talked to Herr Stoltze and he would tell me what to do. Occasionally, I would play the role of a mute. Sometimes the customers would come over to try to talk to me and I would point to my ears and shrug my shoulders, then point to my mouth while I moved my lips. I would not make a sound. They would soon turn away from me to go find Herr Stoltze.
If Stoltze had any friends or family I didn’t see them, and they didn’t talk about them. If anyone did show up unexpectedly, I would retreat to the basement and hide until they left. They didn’t want anyone to know I was there or to ask questions about me, which suited me perfectly. That would have opened the door to trouble for all of us.
The Stoltzes themselves seemed quite content. I never saw or heard them fighting or arguing. They had two or three bibles, one of which they displayed in their small office. I never saw them reading the bibles, but then I didn’t socialize with them. They lived in an apartment attached to the store office, and I lived in the basement. I never once went into their private quarters. They never invited me and I never presumed to intrude.
This was strictly a business deal between them and myself, and yet it was more. They had to take a personal interest to risk their lives for me. They hired me and kept me partially because of their need for help, but also because of their convictions.
The end came unexpectedly. One morning, as we were working diligently on cars, I looked up from the inside of the hood of a car and saw a uniformed SS officer walking toward me.
My heart leapt into my throat. Oh my God, I said to myself. This is it. I have been denounced!
I tried to compose myself as he walked closer to me, his shiny black boots clicking against the bare concrete floor. As he got closer, I could tell from his uniform that he was a high-ranking officer.
He yelled at me, “Herr Stoltze?”
I looked up at him, not saying anything.
“Herr Stoltze!” he demanded.
I took my hand and outstretched it and then pointed to the office window. He immediately grunted something and headed over that way.
I tried to continue to work. My palms were sweating and I was breathing rapidly. Calm yourself! I screamed silently. I looked over at the office window every few seconds. I could see Herr Stoltze gesticulating wildly with his hands, moving his head from one side to the other. The SS officer had his hand out, pointing at him, shaking his finger at Herr Stoltze as if he were reprimanding him. Frau Stoltze was standing against a wall, watching what was going on. At one time, she held her hand in front of her mouth as if to gasp, “Oh my God!”
None of this helped me in my efforts to stay calm. I was convinced that this was the end, that I was about to be arrested. I looked around and debated whether to make a run for it. I was greasy and filthy. It would be easy to guess I had just come from working on cars.
To my great relief, the SS officer opened the shop door and strutted toward the street. Then he walked over to a car parked on the street. I could make out that the driver of the car was also in SS uniform. The officer got into the car and they drove off.
A sense of relaxation washed over me. I hadn’t been arrested! I felt as if a miracle had occurred. A moment later, the door to the office opened again. It was Herr Stoltze, and he didn’t look happy. He walked over to me and I stopped what I was doing—not that I had accomplished much since the SS officer had arrived.
“Dagobert,” Stoltze began, “I want you to go and wash up. As soon as you have done that, come into the office. I want to talk to you.”
This seemed perplexing. Go and wash up? Stop working early? In the three months I had been there, he had never suggested such a break to me. I had worked twelve hours a day, 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM, every day. Stoltze did too. Here it was, not even lunchtime, and he was telling me to quit. This did not bode well.
I did what I was told and went down to my basement area to wash. I decided not to change my clothes. That had been another nice thing about staying with the Stoltzes. They gave me a new mechanic’s uniform to wear every two to three days.
I walked back up the stairs and back into the office. Both Herr and Frau Stoltze were sitting there waiting for me. Herr Stoltze asked me to sit down.
“Dagobert,” he began, “it is with regret that I must tell you that your days with us have come to an immediate end. The SS and the Gestapo have requisitioned our business to work exclusively on their cars. Their own facilities were just struck by bombs and have been completely destroyed. Therefore, they are requisitioning several small businesses such as ours to work on their vehicles.”
I looked over at Frau Stoltze. She sat there silently, looking straight at her husband and listening.
“In fact,” Herr Stoltze continued, “they are going to send over several cars this afternoon. These are cars that have been damaged in the last bombing raid.”
I tried to let this sink in.
“Obviously,” he said, “it would be a grave mistake to allow you to continue to be here with the SS coming and going constantly. It would be no good for you and certainly no good for us. Therefore, as much as we regret having to do this, we must ask you to change your clothes and leave right away. We have been very pleased to have known you and happy with your work here. But I’m sure you can understand why we have to let you go.”
This was terrible news for me. He was right. I knew he was. It would have been insane for me to stay there. I had practically had a heart attack just seeing one SS officer come into the store. It was one thing to play a deaf-mute in front of a normal civilian customer. It would be quite another to have to try to lie to someone in the Gestapo. There was no way I could stay. I started to try to speak but Herr Stoltze continued.
“In appreciation for your faithfulness and all of the work you have done, we want you to have this money,” he said as he handed me fifty Reichsmarks.
Money had never been part of our deal. Instead, they had provided me with room and board. I was happy to get the money because it meant that they were satisfied with my work but, on the other hand, it was disappointing to have to leave. Still, it was the only thing that made sense.
He reached out to shake my hand and I returned his grip.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at both him and Frau Stoltze. I then walked down to the basement, took off the mechanic’s uniform, and put on my old jacket and pants. I also put on the shoes that the Stoltzes had given me. They had steel caps across the tip for safety, as well as steel across the heel for longer wear. My old shoes were worn out, and these made a welcome addition to my small bundle of possessions.
I went back up the stairs and back into the office.
“Dagobert,” Herr Stoltze said to me, “I want to give you the name of someone who may also be able to help you. He is also a Jehovah’s Witness. He manufactures parts for the armaments industry. His specialty is turning metal and making parts for tanks. I think that your metalworking background might prove useful to him. I have just called him and told him that you are coming to see him. I told him about you and your problem. You can trust him.”
This was another unexpected bonus and I thanked both of them sincerely as I walked out the door.
I was outside on the street for the first time in three months. Though it was a bright, clear day, I felt no desire to linger. I immediately headed to the address Stoltze had given me. It was close by, and as I approached the multistory factory building where I had been directed to go, I hoped that, once again, I would find someone who would keep my existence secret.
My benefactor’s business was four floors up. As I trudged up the steps, I wondered how he managed to make what must certainly be large, heavy tank parts so far off the ground. Breathing hard, I reached the correct floor and entered the office.
A dirty-looking man approached me.
“Yes? May I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a Herr Klimt,” I responded, trying to smile and appear as if I belonged there.
“I’ll get him. Wait here,” the man responded. He wandered off, presumably to find him.
I looked around. From what I could see, there were a lot of high-speed, precision lathes here, as well as some other metalworking machinery. And in front of me, a short man approached. I guessed him to be about sixty years old. As he drew nearer, I could see a face that was comical with loose wrinkles all over it. A zerknautscht face, as they would say in German. It was a face that looked like it had been pushed and squished together. Out of one side of his mouth hung a large, long cigar. It wasn’t lit and he seemed to be chomping on it. He wore an old shopcoat with tools bulging from most of the pockets.
“I’m Oskar Klimt,” he said in a very low, guttural voice. Between the cigar and the voice, he reminded me of the American gangster movies I had seen when I was younger. If I hadn’t been so scared, I probably would have started laughing. This is quite a character, I thought to myself.
“Hello,” I said, shaking his hand. I was hesitant. I knew that Stoltze had already told him about me, but my habitual tendency to keep my mouth shut made conversation difficult. “Herr Stoltze sent me,” I said, trying to be polite.
“Well, don’t you have a name?” he scowled, his voice vibrating.
“Uh, yes, well, of course,” I began. “Dagobert is my name.”
“Didn’t you have a father?” Klimt asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he smoothed his hair back with dirt-encrusted fingers. “Didn’t he give you a last name?”
“Oh, ha ha, yes, of course,” I stuttered. “Lewin is my last name.”
“Hmm. You Jewish?” he asked.
Apparently, Herr Klimt did not believe in the subtle approach. I reminded myself that this was Stoltze’s friend, as I struggled to speak openly. “Yes, um, Herr Klimt. Yes I am.”
“Gut,” He muttered. Then he bellowed, “I don’t care what you are. I want to know what you can do!”
I looked around the shop, evaluating the machinery and types of equipment. “In all modesty, Herr Klimt, I am quite familiar with every machine you have here. I can operate them. I can produce whatever you require.”
“Really?” he said, cigar bobbing up and down with every syllable. “But you’re just a young pisher! Where would you have learned all this?”
“I spent three and a half years in an apprenticeship as a machine builder,” I responded. I looked over at him. I now had his complete attention.
“And where might this have taken place?”
“Here in Berlin,” I told him. “In Werner Werke.”
“OK,” he said, seeming satisfied. Without further questioning, he said, “I am a man of few words. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Absolutely yes.”
“I pay sixty marks for nine hours of work to start. Depending on how you perform, I may increase your pay after the first month.”
“Very well,” I answered.
“I have twelve machines, but only one worker other than yourself. I haven’t been able to find anyone else. They’re all in the army, a population of fools. It is impossible for Germany to win any war against America. I lived there for a while and I know this firsthand. There is no way Germany is going to win against the damn Yankees!”
I nodded, not knowing what else to do. I spoke no English and was totally unfamiliar with some of the phrases he was using. So I just nodded and tried to look as if I understood.
“To hell with them, the German fools,” he continued. “I loved living in America. I came back only because my mother was sick. But now she’s better—old as a fossil, but healthy. As soon as I’m ready to go back to America, the damn German government decides to start a war. They screwed up all my plans, those sons of bitches!”
I nodded again. I resisted the impulse to ask what “sons of bitches” were or what “screwed up” meant. Although I didn’t understand the words, I gathered, by his tone of voice and the furious waving of his arms, that he wasn’t being complimentary. But now didn’t seem like the time to ask for translations.
He continued, “So I’m just in this to make money. If I’m going to be stuck here with the fools, I might as well get something out of it, something I can take back to America with me when the war is over.”
I just nodded, not knowing what else to do.
He babbled on in his low, guttural voice, his cigar bobbing in time to his speech. “I just wish I could hire more people. I’d hire five or six more workers if I could.”
I decided I couldn’t go wrong by nodding my head and did so enthusiastically.
He changed subjects. “We make semifinished parts for the German armaments industry. Generally, we supply them to other companies who then sell them to the big guys.”
I nodded as though it sounded quite interesting. And, in fact, it did.
“The parts are for tanks. German Panthers and Tigers. There is a never-ending demand for them. You’re going to work hard,” he said, cigar flapping. “And you’d better be efficient. I hate to waste time. ‘Time is money.’”
I smiled in agreement, wondering what “time is money” meant.
“That’s why I carry all these tools with me. Hate to have to walk to the storeroom to get something I need.”
“Great idea,” I said, continuing to nod.
He coughed, but didn’t take the cigar out of his mouth. “See you tomorrow. See yourself out,” he said and then turned around and left.
“See you tomorrow,” I called after him. “And thank you!”
I left, puzzled by Klimt’s behavior but delighted that I had been hired. Klimt was obviously a risk taker. He could easily be thrown in prison for his remarks about the Third Reich. But I supposed he felt comfortable saying these things to me, a Jew. I could hardly denounce him, even if I had the slightest inclination to do so.
I spent the next few months working for the cigar-chomping, tool-carrying Klimt. The raw materials came to him in long rods of special steel, with metallurgical characteristics specified by his customer, the big weapons producer who built the tanks. Klimt had an automatic sawing machine that would cut the long rods to a rough length. Just cutting the rods was nearly a full-time job. The loading had to be done manually. Once a piece had been cut off, the machine would feed the rod forward, beginning the cutting cycle all over again. After the rods were cut into the short pieces, they had to be stacked on a pallet.
When pieces had been cut, I would put them, one at a time, into the automatic lathe, which would cut the rods along their length, producing different diameters. Klimt needed my expertise because I was able to prepare the cutting tools on each of the machines. I would grind them and then insert them in the tool holders and position them so they’d produce what we needed.
Klimt knew how to do all this. He did the most difficult setting up himself, handling the most critical machines that required superaccuracy and uniformity. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it. I never knew what his training was, but he seemed to know all the tricks of the trade.
The other man who worked with us was more of a helper than a trained machinist. He did simple things. He was the one who did most of the initial work, cutting the rods to the correct length. He received the material when it came into the factory and took care of getting the finished parts shipped.
Everything we did had to follow the drawings and fixed measuring gauges Klimt’s customer supplied to us. Klimt was always looking over my shoulder, though he knew he didn’t have to. I knew what was expected. I wasn’t about to mess it up. Not only because I desperately needed this job, but because I was trained in Germany. I was a German. Germans didn’t make many mistakes. If they did, they were made to suffer.
The great thing about this job was that it gave me a way to get off the streets. We worked seven days a week, twelve hours a day, which was fine with me. At night, I rotated between Richter’s place, bombed buildings, and occasionally, the Kusitzkys’. It was hard to commute from Lübars and I rarely went back.
One day, Klimt announced that he would be going home to visit his mother. I decided, since I had this break, that I would go visit Ilse. From what I heard from Anni Kusitzky, she seemed to be doing well at her housekeeping job. It gave her food and a roof over her head. An added benefit was that she could be close to Klaus, close enough to visit him.
Two days later, I returned to Klimt’s factory. The Allied bombing raids were getting especially fierce. There were many days when we arrived at the factory, all of us tired to the bone from lack of sleep. The noise and destructive power of the bombs were horrendous and it was impossible not to be affected by them.
One day, after an especially horrible air raid, I arrived at Klimt’s factory as usual. He was there, for the first time minus the cigar. He was as white as a sheet. “Dagobert,” he began, “I’m done.”
I looked at him perplexed. “What?” I asked.
“Done. Done, I say. Damn war. Damn raids. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve made a ton of money already. I don’t need anymore. What’s it worth if they’re going to kill you with bombs before you can enjoy it?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not understanding him.
“I’m finished, Dagobert. Sorry, buddy. Damn fools are going to get me killed. So much bombing. Just isn’t worth it. I’ll just have to live with what I’ve got.”
I just continued to stare at him, perplexed. What was his point?
“So, here’s a bit of extra cash, young Herr Lewin. Good luck to you.”
He held out an envelope to me. I took it, dumbfounded. “Herr Klimt, you mean you’re firing me?”
Klimt begins to howl, his belly shaking with laughter. “That’s good. I am firing myself too!”
It didn’t seem funny at all to me. “You mean you’re closing your business?”
He continued to laugh, sticking the half-chewed cigar back in his mouth. “I’m going home to Mama,” he said.
I probably didn’t want to hear what he was saying, because it didn’t sink into my anguished, shell-shocked brain very quickly. “You’re leaving Berlin?” I asked him.
“Yup,” he grinned. “Going to become a country boy. Get away from this hellhole. Commune with Mama and the birds and the bees. Then hopefully I’ll survive this war and move back to America.”
He rose and stretched out his hand in my direction. I looked at it and did what I thought he expected. I shook it.
He grinned and laughed and then pounded me on the back in what he must have thought was a friendly gesture. “Look me up in Philly after this thing blows over,” he said, and then led me out the door.
He closed it, and I turned around and stared at the spot on the floor where he had been. “Philly?” I mumbled to myself. What was he talking about?
My job and more importantly, my cover, had vanished in the blink of an eye. I turned around and climbed down the four flights of stairs, utterly downcast. Once again, the vagaries of war had cast me out into the streets, to seek shelter yet again in a city filled with enemies.