8

Factory Action

BY EARLY 1943, Nazi persecution of the Jews had reached a fever pitch. The war was in full swing, with German tanks rolling across Europe, crushing everything in their path. As their military successes continued, the government’s policies toward the Jews became increasingly harsh. A year earlier, on January 20, 1942, the infamous Wannsee Conference had taken place to establish the Endlösung, their horrific “final solution” to the “Jewish Problem.”

On February 27, 1943, the day seemed fated to be like most others. The alarm clock buzzed, I woke and ate, then readied myself for work. Ilse had already gone to work, dropping Klaus off at the babysitter. I looked out the window. The weather appeared fine, and I readied myself for one more day of routine.

I shrugged into my windbreaker with the Judenstern, the yellow Star of David that alerted German citizens to the fact that a Jew walked among them. Gulping down my breakfast—bread with artificial margarine and chicory, the coffee substitute—I prepared my equally meager lunch of black “sawdust” bread. Someone had given me an apple the day before, so my lunch today would be a treat.

I left the apartment and, as usual, I got to the streetcar stop as quickly as possible. The less time I spent on the street, the less exposed I felt. I stood there amid the other travelers, still waking up, my mind blank. The streetcar arrived within minutes. I paid the fare and entered, ignoring my fellow passengers. By this time, I was used to being persona non grata. No German in their right mind would have stooped so low as to talk to a Jew. I was rapidly getting used to being invisible.

When the streetcar pulled up to my stop in Berlin Treptow, I got off and started walking toward the gun factory, carrying my lunch in a paper bag.

I had only walked a couple of blocks when I saw Heinrich Schultz, a man who worked in the gun factory with me. Heinrich wasn’t Jewish, but he was made to work in the factory because he limped and therefore couldn’t serve in the army. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and he wore a shoe with a sole that was three inches thick to try to compensate. It allowed him to walk but gave him a noticeable bob.

By this time, the demands of war required that all German men of fighting age serve in the military. But Germany also desperately needed factory workers to produce the guns, tanks, and aircraft that were its only hope of ultimate victory. To fill the gaps in personnel, German women, prisoners of war, volunteers from the occupied territories, and slave laborers (my own category) made up as much as 70 percent of the workforce. Prisoners and foreigners filled the unskilled positions. Anyone suspected of sabotage, or of simply failing to work hard, were dealt with by the Gestapo.

Heinrich himself was something of a loner. He lived close to the factory with his wife and baby. For reasons I didn’t understand, he seemed comfortable talking to me, and we eventually became quite friendly. In those days, physical fitness was given a very high priority by the Nazis, and it was the wish of every man and boy to live up to the Aryan ideal of being the athletic soldier-farmer. Perhaps his physical disability made him feel inadequate. In a society that had adopted an official policy of euthanasia for those judged unacceptable, his fears may have been justified.

Whatever the reason, Heinrich spent more time with me than any self-respecting German would. I had even been to his apartment once.

“What a surprise to see you, Heinrich! How are you this morning?” I asked.

But my banal greeting died in my throat as I caught the intense, troubled look on Heinrich’s face. Prior experience, learned slowly and painfully since my parents’ deportation, indicated the presence of danger and warned me not to reveal any sense of alarm.

“What is it, Heinrich? Tell me, what is wrong?”

He looked at me, concern plain on his face. Very quietly, he whispered, “Dagobert, turn around. I’ve just finished my shift. They are loading the Jews onto trucks.”

Shocked, I could only stutter. “Whaaat?” It appeared that a day I had long dreaded had at last arrived.

“They are loading the Jewish workers onto trucks. I saw it just now as I was leaving the factory. You must turn around and leave! Leave, I tell you!”

I literally felt the blood drain from my face. We had all known that this time would come, but it was still a shock to realize that the game was over. I didn’t know the details, but I sensed that there would be no more reprieves, no more delays. Our time had come, unless we moved quickly.

Keeping my face carefully blank, I said nothing. I turned and walked away, not even thanking him. I could think of nothing except getting myself and my family to safety. My mind raced and I had to fight to suppress the fear that threatened to overwhelm me.

Unbeknownst to me, the Nazi government had made the decision to remove the last of the Jews from Berlin. The Nazis had instituted a Fabrikaktion, or factory action. Munitions workers, such as myself, who had previously been judged as too important to the war effort to dispense with, were finally being rounded up and sent to the rail yards to be transshipped to the death camps.

It is hard for the average person to comprehend the intensity of the Nazis’ desire to do away with the Jews. There were constant arguments between the army and the Gestapo over what had priority for shipment on the trains. The Gestapo used the trains to send many thousands of Jews to concentration camps. But the Wehrmacht also needed the trains to transport men and matériel to the eastern front. In spite of the fact that millions of German soldiers were facing defeat and death on the eastern front, the trains hauling Jews to the death camps never stopped.

Over the next few months, more than twenty thousand Jews would be deported from Berlin and by May of 1943, Berlin would be declared to be Judenrein (cleansed of Jews). In July of the same year, laws would be passed stripping any remaining Jews of the protection of the courts and placing any Jews still in the Reich under Gestapo jurisdiction.

This was all still in the future. At that moment, all I could do was keep walking. Calm, calm, I told myself under my breath. Panic and die! You have to appear as if nothing is wrong or you’ll draw attention to yourself. Where should I go first? What should I do? One thing was for sure: once they realized I hadn’t shown up for work, the Gestapo would be hunting for me in all the familiar places. I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

I walked quickly back toward the streetcar. By chance, I looked down and caught a glimpse of the ever-present yellow star sewn on my jacket. It would take only one observant Nazi to see the star and arrest me. It was firmly attached, as was required by law. My mother had sewn it on over a year ago, before she had been taken. All Jews hated these badges. Not only were we forced to wear them, we also had to pay for them.

I darted around the corner into a nook behind a building and took out a pocket knife my father had given me for my birthday. As quickly as I could, I cut the thread loops attaching the yellow badge to my jacket. Gradually, I was able to pull it off. I quickly stuffed the star into my pocket.

I started walking again. Slowly, the significance of what I had just done sank in. I was no longer marked. By simply removing a patch on my clothing, I was no longer pinpointed as an outcast. I would have expected to feel elated by this, but the truth was that I now felt like even more of a pariah.

As long as I had worn the star, even though I was a despised member of a despised race, I was still part of the official establishment, part of the system. I had an apartment, a job, ration cards, etc. Now, by taking off the yellow star, I had instantly become an outlaw, someone outside the bounds of society, who would be ruthlessly hunted and, eventually, executed.

I had to think. Ilse. I needed to go and warn Ilse. She and Klaus would also be in danger. I had to tell her what happened. Our time was up.

My Judenstern (Jewish star). Every Jew above the age of six was required to wear it sewn to their outer garments.

I made my way to the streetcar. As I walked, I was passed by a convoy of green, khaki-covered trucks, the same trucks that had transported us after we were arrested. Now those trucks were carrying more Jews to meet their fate.

As I waited for the streetcar, I tried to calm my racing mind, to force myself to think rationally about my options. It would be hard enough finding a place for myself. How in the world would I find a place for three refugees, one of them a child?

Stop it, I told myself. It was pointless to think about being alone. I had made a commitment, and, for better or for worse, I would live up to it. That would be what my parents would have expected of me.

I had been brought up to be a decent person. My father’s family was a very close-knit one whose members looked out for each other. Before the beginning of the war, my father had written to his family and told them about the dire circumstances we were living in under the Nazi regime. They did not hesitate to send regular packages of food. Once every three to four weeks, they would send salami, breads, cheese, and some clothing—sweaters, gloves, and so on.

Everyone helped. Life for them in Kovno, Lithuania, was also difficult. But since Lithuania was primarily an agricultural country, the Jews there were better off than the Jews in Germany. They didn’t have the terrible food shortages that we’d experienced in Berlin. This all changed in 1939, when the German army occupied Lithuania. The persecution of the Jews began immediately.

Although I was afraid, full of doubts and anxiety, I remembered my father’s family and their legacy. I couldn’t turn Ilse and Klaus away. My duty was clear and I would live up to the roles of husband, surrogate father, and protector. I had to keep myself alive to protect my family. So it would be.

The streetcar arrived and I boarded it. I arrived at the right stop and walked briskly toward the Jewish Hospital. Once inside, I quickly went to Ilse’s floor. She seemed startled when she saw me.

I took her by the arm and led her into a corner, where, in as few words as possible, I explained how the rest of Berlin’s Jews were being rounded up and how I had escaped only by chance.

“Oh, Dago!” she exclaimed, terror in her eyes. “What are we to do?”

“I don’t know yet, Ilse, I don’t know. I thought about it long and hard on the way here, but I’m just not sure yet.”

“Klaus!” she whispered with alarm. “I must get Klaus!”

“Yes,” I told her, putting my hand on her arm to try to calm her. “Go and get him, but then leave the apartment building at once.”

“But, Dago, our things! Can’t I go into our apartment to get our things?”

“Ilse,” I said a bit impatiently, “when they discover that I have not shown up for work at the gun factory, they will surely go to the apartment.”

“But our things, Dagobert! Can’t I go quickly now? I will just throw the little we have into a suitcase.”

I looked at her. Her eyes were pleading. “Well, I think it is dangerous,” I said, “but if you insist, then go. Just hurry. And say nothing to anyone!”

“Very well. Where will I meet you?” she asked.

“After you get Klaus, kill some time walking. Then meet me at Alexanderplatz in three hours,” I replied.

“Three hours?” she asked, “Where are you going, Dago?”

“I’m going to try to find a place for us to stay, Ilse.” I looked at her and tried to smile. “Just do as I say. Leave here at once and pick up Klaus. Pack a small, inconspicuous bag with our things, and then meet me at Alexanderplatz next to Aschingers Restaurant. Do not go back to the apartment after that. Do not come back here. The Gestapo will be looking for me and possibly you as well.”

I turned and hurriedly walked off her floor and out of the hospital. Where to go?

I tried to think of the non-Jews I knew. The only ones who came to mind were those who had worked with me in the factory. If we were to have any chance of surviving the next few days, we had to stay with a non-Jew.

I thought about the men on my floor, those who weren’t Jewish, but I didn’t think I dared trust any of them enough to ask for help. Then it came to me. Heinrich Schultz! The man with the short leg who had told me not to go to the factory today. He was concerned enough to warn me then. Perhaps he would be willing to help me now. At least it was a plan.

Heinrich Schultz lived in Neukölln, a working-class neighborhood. Most of the neighborhood consisted of tenement buildings, usually covering all four sides of a city block. These tenements had inner courtyards where one would often find workshops and small factories. There were kneipen, or little bars, on nearly every street corner. During peaceful times, they dispensed the local beer, piles of typical Berlin food like sausages, sauerkraut, potatoes, ham, and pork chops. During wartime, they served what they could. As I walked past, I remember thinking that it might be a long time until I stopped into one again.

Finally, I reached Heinrich’s apartment. It was on a quiet side street, just below street level. Not quite a basement apartment, but you had to walk down a few steps to get to it.

I knew where he lived because I had visited him, his wife, and their toddler during my days at the gun factory. His apartment was small, but everything was in its place and it was so clean that it virtually sparkled. His wife was at home most of the time, taking care of their child and the apartment. She also spent quite a bit of time caring for Heinrich. He not only had a short leg but also had other afflictions that prevented him from doing certain basic things for himself.

Heinrich worked in a special department in the gun factory where the work did not require standing on one’s feet all day. He sat and checked the manufactured parts with gauges to insure that the dimensions were exactly as specified.

He had invited me to visit him one Sunday a few months earlier. This was an unusual invitation, because I was Jewish and he, of course, was not. It was rare for a Gentile to want to spend time with “vermin” like me. Heinrich had said he wanted to introduce me to his wife, Hilde, and his young daughter, Inge. I was struck by how excited he was for me to meet them. He was obviously very proud of his family. He beamed at Hilde and complimented her in my presence. He emphasized how hard she worked to keep their house running and how much he appreciated all that she did for him.

The other unusual thing about Heinrich was that he was very proud of his friendship with me. He was excited to have Hilde meet me and talked very enthusiastically about how much he had enjoyed his conversations with me at the gun factory. We had these opportunities for discussion whenever he found parts that were suspect.

If he found faulty parts, he would question the supervisor responsible for the team that made them. Sometimes he would skip the supervisor and come directly to me. I would have to go to his desk to arrange for a replacement part to be made.

During these conferences, Heinrich would be eager to talk about subjects having nothing to do with the making of gun parts. Even at an early age, I seemed to instill a certain confidence in people. They would confide in me about things or people with whom they had problems. Heinrich often would ask my opinion regarding his wife’s relatives, people I had never met. He felt they were not treating him right, that they looked down on him because of his disability. Heinrich wanted to know what I would do if I were in his place.

So as I approached the door, I thought about old Heinrich. He was a kind man, a bit befuddled, but proud. I prayed he would be kind to me now.

I opened the exterior door to his floor and walked into a little hallway, turned left, and rang his doorbell. Please be here, I thought. Please don’t turn me down. I wasn’t worried that he would betray me to the Gestapo. If he had any anti-Semitic feelings, he would never have warned me not to go to the factory that day.

The door opened and there stood Hilde, his thirty-year-old wife, wearing a floral kitchen apron, a dark skirt, and sensible polished shoes.

“Herr Lewin!” she exclaimed, consternation covering every inch of her face. “I’m so surprised to see you! Are you all right? What brings you here?”

“Hello, Frau Schultz. Is Heinrich at home?”

“Yes, yes. Come in. You must please come in.”

I stepped inside. Hilde asked me to come and sit at her kitchen table. She’d go get Heinrich from the bedroom.

When Heinrich limped in, he looked pleased but worried. He took my hand and shook it and then sat himself across from me at the table.

“Dagobert. You’re here. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Heinrich, my friend. I am doing OK. Thank you so much for helping me escape today. You are the only reason I am not on a train bound for the East right now. I can never thank you enough. “

“Do not worry, Dagobert. I know you would have done the same for me. But you haven’t answered my question. Why you are here? I’m glad to see you, but why have you come? Surely not merely to say thank you?”

This didn’t sound very inviting to me. My heart started to pound. This had to work. He must help us!

“Heinrich, I come to you in great need of help. I was dearly hoping that you might allow my wife, Ilse, her son, Klaus, and I to stay with you for a while. At least until we can make other arrangements.”

Heinrich took another deep breath and looked somberly at Hilde, who was standing by the sink, drying dishes and listening. Hilde looked back at him sadly. I could guess what was coming.

“You have been a good friend to me, Dagobert. I have enjoyed the times I have spent talking with you. However, and it makes me very sad to have to say this, I do not think we will be able to help you. Our apartment is very small, just two rooms. It would be impossible for us to add three people here and have that go unnoticed. I do wish I could help you. I truly do. But I cannot. It would endanger my family too much. I hope you can understand.”

I looked down at the table and moved my finger in a circle over a small corner, drawing an invisible pie over and over again, then bisecting it, over and over again, nervously. I was dejected and terrified. What would we do? Where could we go?

We had, within the space of one day, become nonpersons, living on the run. Before today, we had been leading horrible lives, but at least we had a place to live and food to eat. What would we do now? I braced myself to get up and say thank you and to leave. But to my surprise, Heinrich motioned me to stay.

“I think, Dagobert, that I may know of someone who might be able to help you. We go to the same doctor, and I’ve talked to him a few times in the waiting room there over the last few weeks. He’s told me that he is in need of money and was asking my advice. He wants to take on a renter or two. They’d have to live in a spare bedroom in his apartment and he’d live in the rest, but he works during the night, just like me, so he wouldn’t be around much.”

I thought about this. I was elated to hear he might have a plan, but there was one extremely important question. “Heinrich, why do you think he would rent to Jews? Are you sure he is not anti-Semitic? If he was, he could turn us in. He would be applauded, and we would be deported.”

Heinrich responded, “Well, I’m really pretty sure it would be all right. He has tried to rent it before but has not had any luck. It is not the most beautiful apartment, from what I gather. He is desperate for the money, Dagobert. It wouldn’t make sense for him to turn you away or turn you in if you were giving him what he needs so badly.”

This sounded better to me.

Heinrich continued, “I believe he has also mentioned that he has a cousin who married someone Jewish, though I’m not sure how that would have come up. But I distinctly remember him saying that matter-of-factly, with no malice or prejudice in his voice. So I’d think it would be worth a shot for you.”

I let this sink in. Not the most beautiful apartment, Heinrich had said. I could only imagine what that might mean. I was a little bit of a fanatic when it came to cleanliness, but I was in no position to be picky. Heinrich’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“Why don’t I contact him for you, Dagobert? I could say that I heard of a Jewish couple with a small child who have money. They desperately need a place to stay. What about it? Do you think it will be all right for you? You three could stay with us tonight—only tonight—and then hopefully, by tomorrow after work, I could get you an answer. Do you have money to pay the rent?”

I sat there, still looking down at the table. Do I have the money to pay him rent?

I thought about it. Ilse and I had just quit our jobs. There would be no more money coming in for our family, no matter how little it might have been. Now that we were going underground, there would be no more ration cards that could be obtained legally. Ilse’s protection card would be voided, of course. Just surviving was going to be difficult.

I looked up and saw Heinrich and Hilde looking anxiously at me. Do I have the money, they want to know? I thought it over.

“Yes, Heinrich. I have the money. It will not be a problem.”

I left Heinrich’s apartment and went to Alexanderplatz to find Ilse and Klaus. After a few minutes I located them sitting on a bench beside a storefront window. Ilse was obviously scared and trying not to show it.

It was pitch black outside, with the only light coming from the very small streetlights on the sidewalks. Berlin was in blackout mode, trying to make itself disappear into the night to protect itself from Allied bombings. All windows were covered at night. Cars and streetcars covered most of their headlights, except for a small slit to allow for vision.

Berlin, with a population of more than four million, was one of the greatest centers of industry and commerce in Europe. It was the sixth largest city in the world and contained a plethora of prime industrial and military targets, as well as being the center of Germany’s war effort. All three branches of the German military were represented in Berlin, as well as more than ninety military headquarters, barracks, depots, and miscellaneous buildings of various sizes. Berlin was also a major rail hub, with twelve main lines converging on the city.

Berlin had factories for producing radios, radar equipment, generators, ball bearings, and innumerable other vital components for military equipment. It was also an important center for aircraft production. Hundreds of aircraft were produced each month, including bombers and fighters. The city was a prime military target and by March 1943, large-scale Allied air attacks had begun.

Industrial complex of Agfa, IG Farben, and Gustav Genschow weapons factory.

Daytime bombing was carried out by the US Air Force. Hundreds of B-17 and B-24 heavy bombers would contest with single- and twin-engine German fighters and batteries of antiaircraft guns in desperate battles that would ultimately decide the fate of Germany’s factories and, therefore, the course of the war itself. The air battles continued after dark, with the British Royal Air Force continuing night missions. By March 1943, Berlin had become a city under siege, with the thoughts, hopes, and aspirations of the entire population totally controlled by the course of the war. It was not a comfortable environment, and for me, it was about to become much less so.

I smiled and took both Ilse and Klaus by the hand and began making them walk toward the streetcar. Ilse looked at me tentatively, seemingly wondering what was going on. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Just come.” We had to move quickly.

Our journey on the streetcar was made in silence. We did not want to talk publicly about what we were doing. We couldn’t talk about who we were or where we were going.

Ilse, Klaus, and I arrived back at Heinrich’s apartment and settled in for the night. Heinrich had visited his friend and confirmed that the room was available. The next day, I left for his friend’s apartment, hoping to strike a deal.

---

Our future home was in a working-class neighborhood called Kreuzberg. It was a bleak place, with little in the way of trees or grass. The buildings were old and decrepit, dating probably to the late 1800s. There was none of the unique architecture common to other parts of the city; it was strictly a working-class environment.

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a four-story building. The stairs were narrow, with a landing between each set. There was no natural light. One low-wattage lightbulb flickered from an exposed socket on each floor. The place smelled a bit from strange cooking odors, none of which were recognizable.

Well, it’s better than nothing, I told myself. It’s the only option you have.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door, praying to myself that the man would not be as bad as this apartment building would lead me to think. Hopefully, the current resident was just in need of money and wouldn’t care who I was or what I was.

After I knocked a second and then a third time, the door sprang open. Instantly, the smell of stale beer permeated the air, almost before my eyes got a chance to focus on the human specimen before me.

He wore a dirty white undershirt with his soiled pants hiding only a small part of his rather hairy body. It was no surprise to look down and see a half finished bottle of beer in his hand.

“You must be Herr Lewin,” he said immediately, in a much more polite tone than his dress would have led me to expect.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, wondering at the incongruity of this man. If he’s happy to see me, then why didn’t he present himself a bit better? The least he could have done would have been to throw on a clean shirt. Oh well, I thought, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“You are the one Heinrich told me about, the one who wants to rent a room?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a wife and a son?”

“Yes,” I heard myself say, still not used to the concept of marriage. “My wife’s name is Ilse, and our son is Klaus.”

About this time I began to notice that he was still resting against his door, beer in one hand, not letting me in. I began to get a little nervous. Perhaps this wasn’t going to go as planned. Perhaps it wasn’t a done deal. This must be my interview, I thought. I have to make it beyond this point or we might be out in the cold.

“Heinrich has said many nice things about you, Herr Braun.”

“Yes, well, yes,” he replied rather magnanimously.

An awkward silence followed. We were still standing there where we had begun, in the dreary, dimly lit hallway, Mr. Braun leaning against the doorframe.

“Have you got the money?” he asked, taking another sip of beer.

Well, at least he got to the point, I thought, still very nervous. He didn’t seem overly interested in striking a deal, which worried me. He was fairly polite, which was a plus, but the manners seemed a little out of character.

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to talk about this inside?” I asked, leery of the fact that he didn’t seem to understand how dangerous this situation really was. I was supposed to be in hiding here, that was the hope. How could my presence here be a secret if the whole building knew he was renting to someone?

“Well, yes, I guess you can come in,” he said, gulping the last sip of beer in his bottle.

He moved slightly aside so as to leave barely enough room for me to get past him. My first sight of the apartment wasn’t much. In a typical Berlin arrangement, from the front door one walked into the hallway. To the left, I could see a door leading to a kitchen. To the right, there was a hallway that led to other rooms.

I followed him as he walked into the kitchen. The kitchen was sparsely appointed, equipped only with the essentials. There was a free-standing stove with gas burners, a cast-iron sink, and one cabinet with upper and lower shelves. There were a few pots and pans in the open cabinet, as well as a few plates and some silverware. The room looked fairly clean, though there wasn’t much there to dirty in the first place. There was also a small table with a few chairs. I looked at him, waiting for him to sit and to offer a place for me to sit, but that was not to be. He started talking, standing in the middle of the room, with me standing in front of him.

“So I asked you, do you have the money?” he demanded.

“I have three hundred Reichsmarks that I can pay now, and I may be able to come up with another three hundred later in the month,” I told him, lying.

He looked at the floor, a bit of a scowl creeping across his face. I hope I hadn’t just made a mistake. “What do you mean you only have three hundred? Heinrich said you had it all,” he muttered.

“Well, that is all I have right now, but I do expect to have more, as I just told you. It is most likely that I will have more money,” I said, praying that this would work. “I can assure you that if we move in with you, we will be no trouble. We will cause you no problems. I would appreciate your helping me, and I will show you my gratitude later on,” I told him, still trying to negotiate. I just did not want to pay his full price.

“I really expected more than that, especially since I will be taking a great risk, having Jews here,” he said, now looking me in the eye.

Another awkward pause followed. I could not figure out what to say, so I guessed that silence might be my best tool.

It was. “All right, fine,” he said. “I need the money, so I’ll let you stay. You’ll have to be very quiet so that no one will suspect that you are here. I don’t want to see you when I’m awake. You must stay in your room. I work mostly at night and sleep during the daytime, so you will have to be very quiet or I will throw you out,” he said, seeming to swagger with bravado.

“That will be fine,” I replied. “Can we move in tonight?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “But you must pay me now.”

“First, I’d like to see which room we’ll be staying in, please,” I requested. So far, I had only seen the kitchen. I needed to see the rest.

He walked me down the hall and into a small room with a double bed and a very plain closet, half with a hanging rod and half with drawers. There were old-looking blankets on the bed. The walls were plain, absent of any attempt at decoration. “‘This is it,” he said. “If you want it, give me the money.”

“Well, we want to be able to use the kitchen. We have a small child and we’ll need to be able to cook some simple things,” I said.

“That’s OK, I never use it anyway,” he said.

And that was that. I reached into my pocket and handed him the wad of 300 Reichsmarks I had separated from my wallet before I arrived here. I did not want him to see the rest of the money. I needed to keep that to myself as long as I could. I still had a bit of money left over from my black-market motor escapades, between 500 and 600RM. And then there was always my belt buckle, a last present from my father, which was worth more than it seemed.