Destined to Witness Page 3

  Meanwhile, my maternal grandmother, Martha Baetz, who was gravely ill with diabetes, had traveled to the United States for “one last visit” with her children who had settled in and around Chicago. Before Mutti’s letter announcing my arrival could reach my grandmother, Mutti received a blackrimmed letter from one of her sisters informing her that their mother had died and had been buried in Chicago.

  THE GOOD LIFE AT THE ALSTER

  Eventually, Momolu, who had become quite fond of my mother, insisted that she and I join the rest of the Massaquois in their villa on Johnsallee while my father spent most of his time pursuing his law studies—and whatever else—in Ireland. Immediately, the mansion became a house linguistically divided, with everyone speaking German to my mother and me while conversing in English among themselves. Soon the stately mansion in one of Hamburg’s most exclusive neighborhoods was filled with the screams of two willful toddlers, while my mother, who had quit her hospital job in order to take care of me, tried to arbitrate the never-ending disputes between “Uncle” Fritz and me to keep us from disturbing Momolu. Since Fatima had been farmed out to some fancy boarding school in the suburbs, and Nat and Arthur attended high school and kindergarten, respectively, Fritz and I had the run of the house. That went on until, at age two, we were joined by Fritz’s baby sister, my “Auntie” Fasia, who became the new apple of Momolu’s eye.

  If, during my toddler days following my first contact with the outside world, I believed that the universe revolved around me and that I was something quite rare and extraordinarily precious, I came by my belief honestly enough. Not a day went by without people craning their necks at me and rapturously exclaiming “Ist der nicht süss (Isn’t he sweet)?” or “Wie niedlich (How cute)!” At times, during strolls with Mutti, this adulation was tangible as passersby offered me candy, fruit, or even money, all of which, to my chagrin, my mother made me refuse. I soon became aware that other children my age didn’t receive as much attention as I did, and when I asked Mutti why, she explained that it was because everybody admired my “beautiful brown skin and black curly hair.” It had never occurred to me that there were physical differences that set me apart from other people, including my own mother. Suddenly, I became keenly aware of the differences between European and African racial traits. Since my grandfather—a very dark man—was the dominant figure of my universe, with most whites playing deferential if not subordinate roles, I came to regard a dark complexion and kinky hair as superior attributes and accepted the celebrity treatment accorded me by the public as my well-deserved due.

  Grandpa Momolu was an unabashed lover of children who spent as much time as his many consular duties permitted with us kids. In fact, I saw much more of him than I did of my father, who was winding up his studies in Dublin while working in various Hamburg businesses, including the Woermann Line, in order to gain practical experience in the import-export trade. Since Momolu, Fritz, and I were early risers, we three started each day having our breakfast—cantaloupes and a bowl of porridge—on the glass-enclosed terrace overlooking a tree-shaded backyard. While we ate, I would regale the old gentleman with German children’s rhymes, including scary Struw-welpeter (Sloppy Peter) rhymes that my mother had often read to me from an illustrated book, and that I could recite by heart. The rhyme that got the greatest reaction from my grandfather was that of “Die Drei Tintenjungen (The Three Ink Boys),” who started out as white boys but ended up black. After making fun of a loinclothed young “blackamoor” who happened by, they were punished by Santa who, by dunking them into a giant ink bottle, made them even blacker than the blackamoor. Each time I recited this condescendingly racist German children’s classic, my grandfather would roar with laughter that could be heard throughout the house. In return for my efforts, he would tell me stories of great ancient African kingdoms. He even told me that once he had been a king himself, something I found extremely hard to believe until he showed me a photograph of himself as a young man wearing a robe and a crown. He explained that he left the crown in Liberia and promised that one day he would take me there and show it to me. No matter how often he explained to me that he had passed on the crown and title to a younger cousin of his because he had gotten tired of being king, I could never understand why anyone in his right mind would not want to be a king.

  Every Sunday afternoon, Momolu would take Arthur, Fritz, and me for a stroll through a park along the Alster. We were an imposing group, my grandfather in his homburg hat, fur-collared ulster, and fashionable spats, and we boys in matching blue sailor suits and hats, which were the fashion rage of the day. These outings always climaxed in a much-anticipated stop at a small, exclusive café, or Konditorei, where the air was filled with the irresistible aroma of hot chocolate, fresh-brewed coffee, and fresh-baked pastries, and where the inevitable violin and piano background of schmaltzy Viennese waltzes provided that uniquely cozy atmosphere that Germans call Gemütlichkeit. As soon as we arrived, an obsequious, tail-coated maître d’, amid much bowing from the waist, would seat our small yet ever-so-distinguished party at one of the establishment’s better tables, which had been especially reserved for Seine Excellenz. Invariably, the patrons at neighboring tables would stare at us, however discreetly, and invariably, to my great delight, my grandfather would ask me to order the various treats to show off my authentic German. Nothing seemed to please him more than to watch the surprised expressions on the faces of the other patrons as I, fully aware of my importance, rose to the occasion with enthusiastic narcissism.

  There were even times when Momolu had my mother wake me up after I had already gone to bed because he wanted me to demonstrate my linguistic prowess to some African and German dinner guests. On such occasions, the old man would ask me to sing a German nursery song, such as “Hänschen Klein Ging Allein (Little Hans Walked Alone),” and I would be only too happy to oblige. For my trouble, I could bask in the adulation of the guests, who never failed to be impressed by the fact that not only did I speak accent-free German, but that I did so with an unmistakably Hamburgian brogue.

  To me, Momolu was simply Opa (Granddad), an infinitely kind and indulgent man whose main purpose in life, it seemed to me, was to see that my every wish and desire was fulfilled. Only much later did I learn and appreciate what an important and distinguished statesman he was and what a vital, pioneering role he played as a spokesman for Africa in general and Liberia in particular.

  Meanwhile, allegations of an international scandal involving Liberia produced a fallout that had far-reaching consequences for my grandfather, and ultimately for all of the Massaquois, including me. Ever since the latter part of the twenties, reports had been surfacing that sent shock waves of indignation around the world, and that threatened the very existence of modern history’s first black-ruled republic on the African continent. It was alleged that the Liberian government under President King was not only condoning but actively participating in the extremely lucrative export of Liberian tribal people to the Spanish island colony of Fernando Po (now Bioko) off the coast of Nigeria as forced labor. Liberia, the nation founded by freed slaves for the express purpose of providing a haven from oppression, and whose motto was “The love of liberty brought us here,” stood accused of practicing slavery.

  Stung by the accusation, President King demanded a full investigation by an impartial League of Nations commission of inquiry to clear his and his country’s honor. The League obliged and, following an exhaustive investigation, concluded that charges of slavery, as defined by the League’s Anti-Slavery Convention, were unfounded. The commission did, however, censure Liberia for the practice of “pawning” whereby persons, especially children of tribal background, were literally given away by their families to work in households of well-to-do Americo-Liberians, usually without any remuneration other than the most primitive room and board, ostensibly as part of their “education.” Despite the fact that pawning was widely practiced and condoned throughout West Africa, including the vast British, French, Belgian, and Portugues
e colonies, it was Liberia, the tiny black-ruled republic, that was singled out for international condemnation. As a result, pressure mounted, especially in the United States and Britain, for the resignation of President King and Vice President Allen Yancy.

  At this point, a wild scramble to fill the political vacuum that could result from a King resignation erupted in Monrovia. Much of the behind-the-scenes maneuvering took place thirty-five hundred miles away from Monrovia at the Liberian Consulate General in Hamburg, right under my toddler nose. There, a steady stream of Liberian visitors—all leading members of the opposition People’s Party—tried to convince my grandfather that he was the logical person to lead Liberia out of its darkest hour. It took some doing to convince him to consider a bid for the presidency, especially since that meant changing his political allegiance from the ruling True Whig Party and being pitted against his longtime friend and political ally, Secretary of State Edwin Barclay. But when President King asked Momolu to return to Liberia in order to take over the post of Postmaster General, he regarded the offer as a fortunate omen and accepted. On December 8, 1929, his mind made up to face whatever political challenges lay ahead, Momolu Massaquoi sailed aboard the S.S. Livadia of the Hamburg-Afrika Linie toward Monrovia and an uncertain political future.

  As my grandfather’s oldest son, my father was expected to play an active role in his father’s still clandestine quest for the presidency. This meant that my father had to end his law studies in Dublin and return to Liberia as well, a disruption that he used as further excuse that the time wasn’t right for a wedding. When my grandfather invited us to leave for Liberia with the rest of the family, my mother refused. Although she had been looking forward to our living in Africa one day, she quickly changed her mind when our family physician sternly warned her against such a drastic change of climate for me because of my generally frail health. In quick succession, I had been stricken with diphtheria, whooping cough, scarlet fever, and a touch of pneumonia, and had barely survived. The doctor convinced my mother that taking me to one of Africa’s most inhospitable climates, a country plagued by malaria and a host of other tropical diseases, and that at the time had only the most rudimentary medical facilities, was tantamount to sending me to certain death. That’s all my mother needed to hear. Not bothering to get a second opinion, she told my grandfather that, at least for the time being, she and I would remain in Germany. Her decision was nonnegotiable. Determined not to put my life in jeopardy regardless of the consequences to our financial security or her marital status, she gave up her long-harbored dream of a future in Liberia without blinking an eye.

  THE NEW KID ON THE BLOCK

  With the departure of my grandfather, my father, and the other Massaquois, our comfortable lifestyle in one of Hamburg’s most exclusive residential areas came to an abrupt halt. The only Massaquoi who remained behind in Europe was my aunt Fatima, who at the time was attending a boarding school in Bern, Switzerland.

  Left virtually to her own devices, Mutti was forced to make it on her own. This meant finding a job and an apartment she could afford. Luckily, there was an opening for a nurse’s aide in the ear, nose, and throat clinic of St. Georg Hospital, a huge government facility, near the center of Hamburg. Acting on a tip from a fellow hospital worker, she found a tiny, one-room, cold-water, attic flat on the third floor of a tenement building that could be reached from a rear entrance by negotiating two of the steepest and creakiest flights of stairs I had ever seen. Our new address was No. 3 Stückenstrasse in Barmbek, a sprawling, predominantly working-class section on the city’s northeast side. In addition to the affordable rent, what persuaded my mother to take this particular flat was the fact that on the floor directly below ours there lived an elderly widow, Frau Elisabeth Möller, who, for a modest weekly fee and the stipulation that I call her Tante (Aunt) Möller, agreed to look after me and feed me during the day while my mother was at work.

  Being the new kid on the block is never easy, but as far as my new neighborhood was concerned, I was not only a new kid, but a most unusual new kid. Consequently, it took a while before my new neighbors became used to me and—equally important—I became used to them. In the upscale, cosmopolitan environment I had left behind, an environment in which black people of my grandfather’s stature were treated with the utmost respect, I had learned to look upon my racial traits as enviable assets. All at once I was forced to regard them as liabilities, as I noticed a drastic change in the way people related to me. Instead of the friendly glances and flattering comments I had been used to, I suddenly drew curious, at times even hostile stares and insulting remarks. Most offensive to me were two words that I had never heard before and that I soon discovered were used by people for the sole purpose of describing the way I looked. One word was Mischling, which, after pressing Mutti for an explanation, she defined as someone who, like me, was of racially mixed parentage. The other word was Neger—according to Mutti, a misnomer as far as I was concerned, since she insisted that I was definitely not a Neger, a term that she said applied only to black people in America. But street urchins, who were my worst tormentors, apparently did not know, or care, about such fine distinctions. As soon as they spotted me, they would start to chant, “Neger, Neger, Schornsteinfeger (Negro, Negro, chimney sweep)!” and they would keep it up with sadistic insistence until I was out of their sight. Luckily, after a short time, the stares and taunts became fewer as the novelty of my exotic appearance began to wear off. Soon, some of the kids who had shouted the loudest became my closest pals. To my great relief, it seemed as if all of a sudden they had become oblivious to the visual differences that set us apart.

  Occasionally, I still missed my former, sheltered life in Rotherbaum—my daily breakfast ritual with my grandfather, our walks at the edge of the Alster, and the feeling of being the center of the universe. But whatever feelings of nostalgia remained, they had nothing to do with our drastically lowered standard of living, of which I was hardly aware. From my perspective, our new environment entailed a different lifestyle, not a lower one. Today I realize that my mother saw it differently.

  Instead of hot and cold running water, we now had only cold. This meant that instead of taking daily showers or baths, I now had to wait until Saturday evenings for my mother to heat a huge pot of water on a coal-burning hearth in the kitchen and empty it into a zinc washtub that doubled as my bathtub. After soaking me for a while, my mother would give me a thorough workover with a soapy sponge. The best part was always the rinsing, when my mother, improvising a shower, would dump several pitchers full of warm water on me. During the week, I had to make do with a cold-water “birdie bath” at the kitchen sink.

  Other amenities that were conspicuous by their absence in our apartment were a telephone and a refrigerator. The absence of the latter was typical for the majority of pre-World War II German households, and made daily shopping trips for food an absolute necessity. Private telephones were found only in the homes of the affluent. The one thing, however, that set our apartment apart from every other apartment in the neighborhood, including those in our building, was that it was not wired for electricity and instead was lighted by gas. I had no problem with that. On the contrary, I enjoyed watching my mother each evening hold a lighted match to the ceiling fixture and turn on the gas, then wait for the bright light to come on with a muffled mini-explosion.

  I found my new world far more exciting than the staid, quiet villa and the serene, parklike atmosphere I used to call home. Our new neighborhood consisted mainly of old, dingy-looking three- and four-story tenements, some with balconies and tiny backyards, and terraces of two-story row houses. This was long before it became customary to keep the facades of houses freshly painted in a variety of bright colors, which gave post-World War II West German cities that characteristic “economic miracle” look of prosperity. In the working-class sections of prewar Hamburg, buildings were covered with a rich patina of grime that rendered all an undistinguishable shade of gray. But despite their grimy exter
iors, homes in Barmbek were immaculate inside, since housewives spent practically the entire day scrubbing, brushing, sweeping, dusting, polishing, beating rugs, and doing the laundry. Unlike the quiet boulevards of Rotherbaum, the streets of Barmbek were alive with people who were doing exciting things that were enormously appealing to a five-year-old boy’s curiosity. I did most of my explorations of my new surroundings while tagging along with my babysitter, Tante Möller, as she made her daily rounds to an assortment of shops—the milkman’s, the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s and, once a week, the fishmonger’s. In each of these mostly mom-and-pop shops, she would hold lengthy discussions with the proprietors about virtually everything, from the weather to her rheumatism, and from the high cost of living to “the good old days” before World War I. Each shop held its own special attraction for me, not the least of which were the small samples of cheese, candy, sausage, or fruit that the kindly shopkeepers would invariably hand me. These “donations” became even more bountiful after the shopkeepers learned from Tante Möller that, appearances notwithstanding, I was a genuine, born-and-bred Hamburger and not, as everybody assumed, a Quiddje, which was a contemptuous slang term Hamburgers reserved for people who had the monumental misfortune not to have been born within Hamburg’s city limits.