Destined to Witness Page 9
Occasionally, Tante Fatima would take me to Blankenese, the beautiful Hamburg suburb overlooking the Elbe River, where ostensibly she would visit Pastor Heydorn, the rector of Hamburg’s historic St. Katharinen Kirche (church). A longtime friend of my grandfather Momolu, Pastor Heydorn was a prominent German liberal and the founder of the Menschheits (Humanity) Party, one of the early opposition parties in Nazi Germany. Actually, Fatima came to see the pastor’s handsome oldest son, Richard, with whom she carried on what to my uninitiated eyes seemed like a rather intense relationship. I would tag along bored as the two walked hand in hand through the wooded park of the huge Heydorn estate. Most of the things they talked about were way over my seven-year-old head, but they would also talk about their future in Liberia, where Richard intended to become a missionary.
Later that evening, after we had returned to Hamburg, I heard Fatima tell my mother about the frequent insults she and Richard drew from indignant Nazis whenever they were seen in public together. At the time I attributed those insults to Fatima’s exaggerated exotic looks, and felt that she could easily reduce her problem by simply getting rid of that oversized Afro and that hideous leopard coat. Several years would pass before I understood the larger picture, the unbridled hatred of interracial romance in Nazi Germany.
Without realizing it, I once caused Fatima at least as much embarrassment as she had ever caused me. Christmas was approaching and she asked me what she could get me as a gift. At the time, among the more popular toys that season were little—about three-and-a-half-inch—plastic SA and SS men in their painted-on brown and black uniforms. I already owned a platoon’s worth and had spent many hours staging my own mini-parades. All I needed now to make my life complete, I explained to Tante Fatima, was a matching miniature set of Nazi leaders consisting of Hitler, Göring, and Goebbels that could be purchased in toy stores throughout the city. They not only bore a striking resemblance to their living models, I explained, but their right arms could be raised and lowered for an authentic Hitler salute.
On Christmas Eve, as I had hoped, the three figurines of Hitler, Göring, and Goebbels were standing beneath our Christmas tree. It wasn’t until weeks later that Tante Fatima told us what she had to endure to make my Christmas gift possible. She said that when she was about to leave the toy store with her purchase, the salesman hollered for everyone to hear, “Don’t get any ideas of sticking needles into the toys the way you people do back home, because if anything happens to the Führer, Göring, or Goebbels, we’ll find you and hold you responsible.”
Fatima said her first impulse was to throw the package at the salesman and leave the store. Only after she thought about the money she had already spent and my disappointment if I didn’t get my wish did she change her mind.
One day, Fatima, who after completing her Abitur had enrolled at the University of Hamburg as a medical student, arrived with a fat letter from Momolu. The news was that he had been cleared of the embezzlement charges and freed from jail and that President Barclay’s vendetta against the Massaquois, while still stifling the family’s progress, had become less intense. Except for Nat, who was still in jail, all the Massaquoi men had come out of hiding and lived in various parts of Liberia. My father had temporarily gone into exile in Lagos, Nigeria, where his mother lived with her second husband, but now he had moved back to Monrovia.
Momolu apologized for being unable to be of more financial assistance to Fatima and advised her to continue to make use of her linguistic talents to supplement the small allowance he had been sending her. Without going into details, he told her that he was extremely worried about the “political developments” in Germany, and was working on arrangements to have her go as soon as possible to the United States, where, with the help of friends like W. E. B. Du Bois, the black civil-rights activist, she would be able to continue her studies. By “political developments,” he undoubtedly was referring to Hitler’s incessant saber-rattling and the mounting prospect of war. If he read Hitler’s Mein Kampf, which is more than likely, he may also have realized the precariousness of Fatima’s status at the University of Hamburg. In Hitler’s revealing blueprint for the Third Reich, which he penned while incarcerated at Landsberg prison for his aborted putsch in Munich, the future dictator left no doubt what he thought of university-trained blacks. “From time to time,” he wrote, “illustrated papers bring it to the attention of the German petty-bourgeois that some place or other a Negro has for the first time become a lawyer, teacher, even a pastor, in fact a heroic tenor, or something of the sort. While the idiotic bourgeoisie looks with amazement at such miracles of education, full of respect for this marvelous result of modern educational skill, the Jew shrewdly draws from it a new proof of the soundness of his theory about the equality of men that he is trying to funnel into the minds of the nations. It doesn’t dawn on this depraved bourgeois world that this is positively a sin against all reason; that it is criminal lunacy to keep on drilling a born half-ape until people think they have made a lawyer out of him, while millions of members of the highest culture-race must remain in entirely unworthy positions; that it is a sin against the will of the Eternal Creator if His most gifted beings by the hundreds and hundreds of thousands are allowed to degenerate in the present proletarian morass, while Hottentots and Zulu Kaffirs are trained for intellectual professions. For this is training exactly like that of the poodle, and not scientific ‘education.’ The same pains and care employed on intelligent races would a thousand times sooner make every single individual capable of the same achievements….”
It was not until 1937 that Momolu was able to make good on his promise to get Fatima out of Germany and enrolled at Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. When she paid us one last visit to say goodbye, I sensed that she would be gone for a long time and suddenly realized that I would miss her a lot since she had been my only tangible link to Momolu as well as to my father, who hadn’t written a single letter to my mother and me since he left Germany. Now eleven years old, I had outgrown being embarrassed by her exotic presence—super Afro, leopard coat, and all—and proudly, yet sadly, walked her to the train station to start her long journey, via Switzerland, to the U. S. A.
SUMMER FUN IN SALZA
A long-standing and extremely popular government-sponsored social program in Hamburg was the annual summer Ferienzug (vacation train), which gave thousands of city kids a chance to spend their four-week summer vacation with relatives in various rural parts of Germany. Each year, beginning at age six, I looked forward to making the six-hour train ride to visit Onkel Karl, my mother’s brother, Tante Grete, and my four-years-older cousin, Trudchen, who lived in the tiny village of Salza near Nordhausen at the edge of the scenic Harz Mountains.
Following registration several weeks in advance of the trip, my mother would take me to Hamburg’s Hauptbahnhof (main train station) where I would be assigned to a counselor, usually a female social worker, who would fit me and the suitcase I carried with all-important tags. The tag, which I was admonished to wear around my neck throughout the trip, listed my name and address and the name and address of Onkel Karl. Since neither we nor my relatives had a telephone, my mother had written Onkel Karl the exact time of my arrival.
After several hours of riding southward, the train, which had been packed with kids in Hamburg, emptied as more and more children reached their destination. One stop before Salza, my counselor alerted me that the next stop would be mine. When the train pulled into Salza, I immediately spotted Onkel Karl, a rather portly gentleman, Tante Grete, a thin-as-a-reed woman, and Trudchen, a rather chubby girl. The counselor turned me and my suitcase over to their care, wished me an enjoyable vacation, and reminded Onkel Karl that she would be back for me in exactly four weeks.
Compared with the hustle-bustle of Hamburg, life in the tiny village of Salza was idyllic, tranquil, and eventless. Automobiles were a rarity, while cattle and sheep on cobblestoned Hauptstrasse, the village’s only thoroughfare, were commonplace. In Salza, people fro
m the next village, a few miles away, were almost regarded as foreigners. The arrival of someone from as far a place as Hamburg and as exotic looking as I caused quite a stir. Prior to my first visit, Tante Grete had seen to it that everybody in the village knew that her nephew from Hamburg was the son and grandson of African big shots, information that added considerably to my status as a rare attraction. Despite vast differences of our respective worlds, or because of them, I was an instant hit with the village boys, who never failed to be impressed with my only mildly exaggerated accounts of big-city life. They were awestruck when I told them about buildings that were ten stories tall, so tall that one needed a Fahrstuhl (elevator) to get to the top; ferryboats that transported people throughout the city along a vast network of canals; ships that were bigger than buildings; and a carnival ground many times the size of Salza that was packed with merry-go-rounds, magic shows, hot dog stands, and shows featuring the world’s tallest man, fattest woman, and an “Ape Woman” supposedly captured in the Borneo jungles who was covered from neck to toe with long monkey hair.
If hailing from the big city made me feel sophisticated by comparison with Salza’s simple country folks and their countrified ways, nothing made me more aware of the huge gulf that existed between my world and theirs than a strange contraption in the backyard of my relatives’ three-story apartment building. It took several days and a near internal explosion before I was able to overcome my revulsion and use the outhouse for the purpose it was intended for. There simply wasn’t any way to shield my nostrils against the foul stench that emanated from the round, head-size hole in the wooden plank that constituted the seat. Through it I could see a round, nearly filled metal receptacle buzzing with flies and around which chickens were merrily pecking away in a disgusting search for food. Fittingly, the amenities of the facility—such as they were—consisted of newspaper pages cut into neat little squares skewered on a large nail protruding from the wall. It was during those moments when I smelled the stench and felt the unyielding, sand paper-like newspaper on my pampered behind that I missed Hamburg the most. But there were far too many things I enjoyed in Salza to keep me from feeling homesick.
Onkel Karl, Tante Grete, and Trudchen treated me like the son and brother, respectively, they never had. A master tailor, Onkel Karl enjoyed having me around when he fashioned men’s suits from bolts of cloth while seated cross-legged on his worktable. In Salza, as elsewhere in Germany, money was in short supply. Onkel Karl had worked out barter arrangements with some of his customers, either local farmers or tradesmen like himself, whereby they would pay with their produce or skills instead of currency. Three times a week, Onkel Karl’s barber would make a house call to give him an expert shave and, whenever necessary, a haircut. In return, the barber received a new high-quality suit each year.
The only thing that dimmed my otherwise idyllic vacations in Salza was Tante Grete’s conviction that I needed fattening up. Obviously equating Onkel Karl’s and Trudchen’s chubbiness with health, she was determined to put some additional pounds on me. No matter how much I protested that my stomach couldn’t handle the mountains of food she piled in front of me, she sternly insisted that I eat every bit. The result was that each supper, I would put in overtime at the kitchen table gagging on humongous sandwiches, since I was not allowed to play again until I had eaten everything on my plate.
Each Sunday, largely for my benefit, the entire family went hiking or by rail to some of the Harz Mountains’ most scenic spots, including old mountain-top fortresses and castles. Following each of these weekend hikes, I returned filled with, and deeply moved by, Germany’s history and old legends, which my lively imagination weaved into an enchanted realm that made me long for bygone days of chivalrous knights and magical feats.
By the time my four weeks in Salza were up, I had finally had my fill of country life and longed once again for the big city. On the day of my departure, Tante Grete made sure that all of us were standing on the station platform well ahead of the train’s arrival, that my shoelaces were tied, and that I and my suitcase were properly tagged. As promised, my counselor and the vacation train arrived on time to take me back. After a seemingly never-ending exchange of goodbyes, and a big hug and kiss from Tante Grete that I hoped none of the kids on the train had noticed, I boarded and was soon part of a boisterous bunch of kids who were wildly debating who had done and seen more. I had no doubt that none of them could top the places I had visited and the sights I had seen.
It was dark when our train finally pulled into the brightly lit, cavernous dome of Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. Seeing my mother’s face in a sea of parents’ faces after what seemed like an eternity gave me a feeling of indescribable joy and complete happiness. Although I had become extremely sensitive about displaying affection or emotions in public since I entered school, I made an exception when I let my mother hug and kiss me to her heart’s content. It was at that point that I discovered the old verity that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
WRIEDE ARRIVES
Looking back, I can recall quite a few people who caused me grief when I was a child, but not one of them was quite as relentless, as consistently mean-spirited and cruel in his effort to make my life miserable as Herr Heinrich Wriede, our new school principal. Unlike his predecessor, who during my first school year kept such a low profile that I can recall neither his name nor the way he looked, Wriede was not a man to be ignored or forgotten. A strapping, reddish-blond six-footer in his mid-forties, Wriede was a cousin of the writer Gorch Fock, and reputedly a poet in his own right. In addition, he was a fanatic follower of Hitler, a fact he emphasized by affecting a square, albeit reddish-blond, Hitler-type mustache.
Herr Wriede came into my life—and I into his—sometime during my second school year, on the day he became our new principal. To introduce himself to us, he had the entire student body and faculty assemble in the schoolyard, where, resplendently attired in the brown uniform of an Amtswalter, a mid-level Nazi functionary, he strutted around in high boots and riding breeches like a general inspecting his troops. His stated purpose was to impress upon us—teachers and pupils alike—that a new wind was blowing at Kätnerkampschule and that henceforth, things would be done the Wriede way—if we knew what he meant. Of course we boys didn’t know what he meant, but from the tone of his voice we got a pretty good idea that “the Wriede way” was nothing we’d be particularly crazy about.
As he paraded in front of us, he suddenly spotted me among the ranks of boys, and, like a snake trying to mesmerize its prey, fixed his hateful gaze on me.
“What I intend to instill in this school is pride in being German boys in a National Socialist German state,” he intoned without taking his eyes off me.
I had grown quite uncomfortable under the principal’s stare, but just as I was about to avert my eyes, he moved on, continuing to elaborate on his theme. After Wriede had finished and we returned to class, I couldn’t rid myself of the unfamiliar and quite unsettling feeling of having just met a personal enemy, someone who wished me ill. It didn’t take very long before I found my suspicion confirmed.
The first time Wriede gave me tangible evidence of how he felt about me was when he filled in for our sick gym teacher. The principal announced that he would conduct a Mutprobe (test of courage) to separate the cowards from the boys with guts. I had no problem with that; in fact, I welcomed the opportunity to show off my prowess, because I had always believed—and repeatedly proven—that I had at least as much guts as the next boy in my class.
After Wriede marched us to the Turnhalle (gym), he had us build an obstacle course by arranging various pieces of equipment—parallel bars, pommel horses, balance beams, and so on—in a wide circle. They had to be spaced widely enough so that leaping from one piece of equipment to another could not be done without a certain degree of difficulty. One gap he wanted left so wide that the only way it could be traversed was by jumping into the air and grabbing on to a thick rope that dangled from the ceiling and then, Tarzan
like, swinging to the other side. To add to the difficulty of the maneuver, Wriede positioned one boy beside the big gap with the instruction to keep the rope in constant motion with the aid of a long stick.
Surveying the course, I anticipated no problems and confidently awaited my turn. By the time it came, most boys had successfully completed the course, though a few had washed out and, on Wriede’s orders, been sent to the “cowards’ corner.” I got through the major part of the course quite easily and was headed for the big gap when I saw that Wriede himself had taken the place of the boy with the stick. Rather than letting the rope swing to and fro, he held it back in such a way that it remained totally out of my reach. As I waited for him to release the rope, ready to leap as soon as it swung toward me, Wriede shouted, “Feigling (Coward)! Kein Mut (No courage)! Get out of the way!” Not quite believing that he could be this unfair, I waited another moment to see if perhaps he would relent and send the rope my way. But he became only more enraged, shouting at me, “Out of the way! Give somebody with courage a chance. Get over there with the other cowards!” Reluctantly I complied and joined the small group of wash outs. I felt as if I had just been whipped. In fact, a beating would not have hurt me nearly as much as being unjustly branded a coward.
Up to that moment, I had craved Wriede’s approval despite his pointed rejection of me. I had even felt pangs of jealousy when I observed how kind and caring he could be with other children in my class, especially those whose blond hair and blue eyes projected the Nazi physical ideal. But quite suddenly, my almost perverse need to be liked by this man vanished and gave way to unadulterated—albeit impotent—hate.
I did not tell my mother about the incident, afraid that in her anger she would confront Wriede and thereby make matters worse. Instead, I decided not to let anything Wriede said or did bother me. But that was easier said than done, as I was soon to find out.