by Roxi Harms
Adam and his family savoured the food items around the supper table at night, but the cartons of cigarettes the soldier had given him, he kept from sight. American cigarettes were a hot item on Germany's burgeoning black market. He and his dad could smoke hand-rolled cigarettes like they always had.
As he put his mind to the black market, Adam spotted another opportunity. The electronics factories hadn't re-opened since the post-war closures, and demand was growing. Asking around, he found a couple of local guys with jobs on the American military base who were happy to smuggle parts out of the warehouse for him in exchange for black market food items. Next, he searched out someone who knew how to build radios and offered him a deal where he could keep every fourth one in exchange for his services. In the evenings, Adam re-finished scrap wood to make boxes and carefully cut and sanded little holes for the knobs. The radios sold faster than they could produce them.
With all the extras coming in, it wasn't long until the family found a place to rent that would give them each a bit more privacy and a back yard of their own.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
The warmth of springtime on his shoulders and the world by the tail, Adam strolled towards their new home whistling a cheery tune. On his head, at a jaunty angle, was his new fedora. It was a hat that the well-to-do wore, and he knew it looked good on him. He'd been eyeing it for weeks. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince the shopkeeper to sell it to him. She wanted to keep it for the display. More accurately, she didn't want to accept Reichsmarks for it. That day Adam had gone to the shop with a couple of pounds of butter and a little bag of flour, and now he was wearing the best-looking hat in Laudenbach.
"Hi, Franz," he said as he opened the front gate, tipping his hat to the guy sitting on the step.
While Adam had been studying bricklaying and working the black market, a fellow Theresa had known back in Elek had been searching for her. Franz and Theresa had been seeing each other before the war had interrupted. Finally, nearly five years later, he'd found her again. Theresa's beau had been at the house several times since, taking the train from where his family lived in Bavaria.
"I want to marry your sister," Franz said after they'd chatted a few minutes. "I was hoping you'd put in a good word for me with your parents and Theresa."
By the following weekend a date had been set. The wedding would be on the first of May.
Theresa and Franz's wedding would be the first Eleker wedding in Laudenbach, and Adam was determined to make it a grand affair. With cartons of American cigarettes, a roll of white linen stolen from the military warehouse during a wall repair job, and a variety of other hot commodities, he set to work.
But the ability to pay was only half the battle in post-war Germany. The other half was finding the goods you wanted to buy.
Lacking neither creativity nor determination, Adam found what he needed, and when morning broke on the day before the wedding, everything was lined up. Veal from an unexpected twin calf that a lucky farmer hadn't reported to the authorities would make a big Hungarian goulash, a barrel of wine had been brought from the mountains of what would later become the Pfalz wine region, and a five-piece band that he'd enticed with the promise of a spectacular meal and a package of cigarettes would play dance music.
The only task left was to say his confession so that he could take the sacrament with the rest of the family during the wedding ceremony.
Adam looked up at the priest who was looking back at him expectantly where he kneeled. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't remember any of it. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been to confession.
"Go on, son, say your prayers and then I will hear your confession," the priest said quietly. Adam began mumbling in Hungarian, saying whatever nonsense came into his head.
"I can't understand you," the priest interrupted.
"I'm sorry, Father. Back in Hungary, before we returned to the motherland, our church required that we pray in Hungarian. It's the only way I know." Adam looked up at the priest apologetically.
"Oh, that's fine, son. The Lord understands all languages."
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
The wedding was everything Adam had wanted it to be, and as his new brother-in-law settled in with them, the Baumann household had a contented air about it. His parents had their routines, George was enjoying the painter apprenticeship their dad had arranged, and little Frankie was doted on by all. Even when Theresa caught her new husband escorting a strange girl to a movie to cover for Adam because he'd double booked himself yet again, she couldn't be angry. With so much to be grateful for, the family basked happily, if somewhat tentatively, in their newfound ease as the summer waltzed by.
Just before Christmas, despite his father's certainty that he'd never pass after only nine months of a three-year apprenticeship, Adam successfully challenged the bricklayer's exam. With Class One Journeyman papers in his pocket, he started the new year with optimism. But before long, the jobs developed a certain sameness. Routine had set in. Despite the spring air that cheered others, to Adam, Laudenbach seemed to be shrinking. He was ready for something new. Something exciting.
"Aunt Louise is so thoughtful," said his mom as she pulled a dress out of the box and held it up, then handed it to Theresa. Packages arrived a couple of times a year from New York where his dad's youngest sister had settled. "Here's the letter," his mom continued, pulling an envelope out of the bottom of the box and handing it to Adam. "Can you read it to us please?"
Adam tore open the envelope and began reading out loud. Her husband had started a new job and he was making more money now, so they'd moved into a big house outside the city. Their son was doing well in school. The next paragraph was addressed to Adam. He stopped reading out loud and scanned it. Aunt Louise wanted to know if he would be interested in moving to the United States. For a moment, the bedtime stories Aunt Louise had told him when they'd first moved into the family home, about all the grand things she'd do when she left Elek, popped into Adam's head. The letter said that if he was interested, she'd go to the immigration office and look into what would be involved in sponsoring him.
"What else does she say?" his mom asked as he read silently.
"She says she'll help me immigrate to the United States. I'm going to write back right away and tell her I'm interested," he said, jumping up.
His mom looked startled. "Oh," she said dropping the pants she'd been holding up back into the box.
For the next month, Adam checked the mail every day after work. Finally, there was another small parcel from Aunt Louise. Tearing it open at the post office, he pulled out the letter. She had been to the German Embassy in New York, and to the United States Immigration Office, and submitted all the paperwork. They'd cautioned her that there was a long waiting list and it would take three to six months. She would let him know as soon as she heard anything. He turned over the page. I've included a suit for you to wear when you arrive in New York. I hope it fits, she'd written.
Grabbing the parcel, he had a quick look inside and then stuck it under his arm and headed home to try on his new suit. He was emigrating to the United States!
When several months passed, and Christmas came and went with no news from Aunt Louise, his excitement began to dissipate, replaced by irritation and impatience. His mom invited a local girl for supper, and spent the evening rambling on about the girl's cooking skills and all the linens and household items she'd accumulated to set up her own home someday. Adam felt like he was suffocating.
Keeping his ear to the ground, Adam got wind of a six-month contract, doing brick work on a large construction job in France. Finally, something a bit different, he thought as the train chugged south, even if it is in France. As luck would have it, news on his US immigration finally came when he'd been in France only a couple of weeks. Leaving a note of apology for his boss, he jumped on the next train back to Germany, and a handful of days later, he was en route to an interview at the American embassy in Frankfurt.
The appointment was going well. His sponsorship had been approved. The visa was ready to go. The last step was the physical, which the fellow assured him would be a mere formality for a healthy young man like Adam.
Vitals checked, reflexes checked, temperature checked.
"I need to listen to your lungs," said the doctor. He waited while Adam unbuttoned his shirt and threw it over the back of a chair. "Take a deep breath," he said next, pressing the cold stethoscope against one side of Adam's chest. He moved the stethoscope to the other side. "And again. . . now turn around. . . another deep breath. And again. . . Okay, now lift your arm a bit so I can listen from the side. Deep breath." As he moved around to Adam's left side, Adam automatically lifted his other arm and took a deep breath. The doctor listened, then scratched a few notes.
"Okay, I think that's it. You can put your shirt back on and wait in the lobby."
A few minutes later, the first man he'd met with came back out into the lobby.
"Can you come into my office, Mr. Baumann?" The doctor was in the office too.
"Sit down," the man continued when he'd shut the door behind Adam and taken his own seat behind his desk. "It appears we have a problem. How old were you when the war ended, Adam?"
"Sixteen. What's the problem?"
"Why do you have a tattoo of your blood type under your arm? Were you member of the Schutzstaffel?"
Adam looked at the two men silently. "Yes, I was," he responded after a few moments. "Why do you ask?"
"Because the immigration policies of the United States do not permit entry of former members of the SS. But based on your age we thought perhaps we were mistaken and the tattoo was for something else. Why were you in the SS at 16?"
Taking a deep breath Adam explained.
". . . and now I live in Laudenbach. I'm a Class One Journeyman Bricklayer," he finished.
The two men had listened quietly. When Adam stopped talking the three of them sat in silence for a few moments.
Then the man behind the desk cleared his throat and spoke. "I'm sorry, Adam. I'm sure your involvement in the SS was no more ominous than any soldier on the front line in any army. But former members of the SS are not allowed to immigrate to the United States."
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
1951
Adam's relatives sympathized and expressed their dismay at the outcome of his interview at the embassy, but Adam knew they were relieved. He was their problem solver, their security blanket. No one wanted him to leave. The company where he'd apprenticed was glad to have him back, and his social life picked up where it had left off, but Adam went through the motions listlessly.
The days and weeks plodded by. Summer came and went, and Adam filled his time with picnics, dances, and playing music for his friends and relatives. He took little Frankie to festivals and on hikes with his friends on the weekends, carrying his four-year-old brother on his shoulders. He began dating a pretty girl that he'd known for a while, until her father took him aside to explain that, although he liked Adam, he'd never allow his daughter to marry a refugee. He was sure Adam would understand. No problem, he assured the girl's father. It was the last time Adam asked her out. In the fall, Adam bought a little red weaner pig and built a shelter for it in the back yard. Everyone would enjoy having fresh meat and eating his father's sausages again.
All the hard times seemed to be behind them, but Adam lay awake in bed at night, wondering what to do with himself. He toyed with the idea of moving to one of the big cities in Germany, but they didn't hold much appeal. He wanted something new and exciting. Further afield in Europe might be interesting, he thought, except he knew that being German would plague him. Six years hadn't dulled people's memories much.
He still hadn't come up with a plan as he headed home from work one day in early autumn. Grabbing a magazine from the station kiosk, he jumped on the train and sat down beside his brother-in-law, stretching his long legs out into the aisle beside the seat in front of him. Half way through the magazine, an ad caught his eye.
Tradesmen Wanted in Canada, the title read.
Adam sat up. This could be interesting. They wanted all sorts of tradesmen including the building trades. They would organize work visas and find jobs for qualified men. And they would even arrange the ocean crossing, and loan you the money for the fare. The next few pages had similar ads for Australia and Argentina. Three different countries, far from Europe, looking for tradesmen. And they were advertising in a German magazine. This was promising. Except, of course, for his tattoo. But he had to try. That night after supper Adam wrote three short, identical letters and addressed them to the embassies shown in each of the ads.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
"BOO!" said little Frankie, jumping out from the alcove in the wall of the train station where he often hid as their train approached the platform at the end of the workday. Adam, George, their brother-in-law, and their dad all pretended to be startled, making little Frankie giggle.
"Hello, Frankie," said Adam, as he reached in his pocket for a coin. "Why don't you go get yourself an ice cream?"
Grabbing the coin, little Frankie raced away past the line of horse-drawn wagons lumbering up the hill now that the railway-crossing arm had lifted.
There was a letter waiting for Adam when they reached the house. His heart pounded as he grabbed the envelope off the table. It was from the Canadian Embassy in Karlsruhe. He hadn't expected a response so quickly. He hadn't told anyone about the ads. Taking the letter into his room, he ripped it open. An interview next week. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he remembered the snow-covered mountains pictured in
the ad.
"But, Adam, we don't know anyone in Canada," his mom said when he announced the interview at supper.
"I'd meet people. It probably won't happen anyway. They'll find my tattoo."
"You can't just pick up and move to a country where you've got no job and no family," his dad said, matter-of-factly, as he helped himself to another slice of bread. "Your family is here."
"Well, I'm going to the interview next week and then we'll see what happens."
The first interview went well. They reviewed his citizenship papers and his bricklaying qualifications and filled in several forms. Adam listened intently as the official told him a bit about the geography of Canada and asked where he planned to settle. Most immigrants settled in Ontario, but British Columbia, out west, was mountainous and beautiful and that's where the future was, the man said.
His medical examination was scheduled for the following week.
Adam sat nervously in the waiting room, tapping his foot on the floor.
"Adam Baumann?" said the man who stuck his head into the waiting room.
"Yes."
"Come in."
The first part of the medical was the same as at the US Embassy. Poking here and there, and looking down his throat, and into his ears and eyes. Then it was time to listen to his lungs. Adam swallowed hard as he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Slowly, the doctor listened to his chest and his back, and then asked him to lift his arms.
"I see you've got one of those SS tattoos. Another deep breath please. . . that was a good idea, identifying a soldier's blood type with a tattoo. Bet it saved a few lives. Not the prettiest tattoo though," the doctor chuckled. "Other side. . . deep breath."
"Is the tattoo a problem?" Adam asked when the doctor put down the stethoscope.
"No. There was a policy previously that disallowed former SS members, but it's been lifted. It's no problem."
Adam's heart leapt.
Two weeks later, his tickets arrived in the mail, along with his visa to work in Canada. He would be sailing on a ship called The Fair Sea, leaving from the port in Bremerhafen in early November. Ten days later, he would be in Quebec City.
PART FOUR
Canada
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit be
longs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."
Theodore Roosevelt, April 23, 1910
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
The small crowd of relatives on the platform looked forlorn as the train rolled away. Aunts, uncles, cousins, his grandma and grandpa, his mom and dad, Theresa and her husband, George, and of course little Frankie. They were all there. ‘Good luck!' they'd all called out as he'd climbed the steps into the train. Their eyes were anxious. Although no one had said it out loud, he was sure everyone wondered if they'd ever see him again. They thought he was crazy heading off into the unknown, and besides, what would they do without him in Laudenbach? He'd thought this through countless times. Everyone would be fine. They all had jobs and no one was going hungry any more. And Theresa's husband could read and write as well as Adam could, so he'd be able to step in and help with what they couldn't do themselves. They would all be fine. His mom had come up with the suggestion to have his photo taken before he left. He'd put one in a little frame for her to keep by her bed and gotten a few extra copies for his relatives.
Fields patchy with early snow slipped past the window of the train for most of the day, interrupted occasionally by a dreary grey town. Eventually, the light began to fade into dusk.