Destined to Witness

by Hans Massaquoi

  Within seconds, Smitty materialized in the door through which I had seen Werner disappear. He was dressed completely in white, including a soiled apron. “See you made it,” Smitty greeted me while extending his hamlike hand. “You’re just in time for chow.”

  He told me to follow him, and after a brief walk through a narrow, labyrinthine walkway, during which we had to squeeze by several crew members, we arrived at a narrow room with a long table and chairs that were attached to the steel floor but capable of rotating on their own axis. “This is the crew mess,” Smitty explained. “This is where the crew eats.”

  He then took me to what looked to me like a kitchen but he called a galley. “Chief, I want you to meet Mickey, a friend of mine,” he addressed a gargantuan black man who made Smitty, a rather substantial man in his own right, look average size. Like Smitty, he was dressed in white, but in addition he wore a huge white chef’s hat. “This is the chief cook, my boss,” Smitty explained.

  “Hi, Mickey,” the profusely sweating giant greeted me while drying his face and hands with a towel.

  “How about fixing the kid up with a full house, chief? He hasn’t had a decent meal for years,” Smitty intervened in my behalf while explaining to me that a “full house” meant a plate filled with everything on the menu.

  “Coming up,” the chief replied.

  Smitty told me to have a seat in the crew mess. Minutes later, he shoved a plate in front of me that was filled beyond the edge with a mountain of food—mashed potatoes, a pork chop, several meatballs, a couple of sunny-side-up eggs, and several different vegetables, all swimming in gravy. When I told Smitty that I had to take some of that food to my mother, he told me not to worry since there was plenty more where that came from. “I’ll make you a package you can take home to your mom,” Smitty promised. With the last obstacle to my enjoyment of the feast before me thus removed, I started digging in. Soon I was the center of attention as other black seamen who had joined me at the table watched with amazement as I made the mountain of food in front of me disappear.

  After I helped Smitty clean up the crew mess, he invited me to his cabin, which he shared with his counterpart in the officer’s mess, a tall, skinny fellow with a goatee whom Smitty introduced to me as Slim. A Texan from Galveston, Slim was sitting on one of the two bunks in the tiny cabin, through whose porthole I could see the harbor and Hamburg’s shoreline in the afternoon sun. “What’s happ’nin’, my man?” Slim greeted me.

  I had begun to notice that Americans—especially the black Americans I had met—spoke a language that bore little resemblance to the one taught by my English teachers Herr Harden, Herr Neumann, and Frau Dr. Fink. When, at the urging of Smitty, I filled his colleague in on my life under Hitler, Slim was moved to interrupt from time to time with “I dig,” “Can you beat that?,” “Get a load of that,” and “Ain’t that a bitch?,” none of which made a great deal of sense to me.

  Then came my turn to ask questions. From the time I was a child and able to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I had known about the mistreatment of blacks in the United States. Later, I added to that knowledge through newspaper articles about race riots, lynchings, and Jim Crow. But I had never had an opportunity to learn the facts firsthand. When I asked the inevitable question, “How are Negroes treated in America?” both men replied in unison, “Like shit!” They then explained to me that cities in the North, like New York, Chicago, and Detroit, were “halfway okay,” but that anyplace in the South—“no matter where”—was “a bitch.”

  “How are you getting along with the white people on this ship?” I wanted to know.

  “We don’t,” replied Smitty. “We does our work and keeps to ourselves and they does their work and keeps to theirselves. In other words,” Smitty summarized, “We don’t fuck with them, and they don’t fuck with us.”

  Slim told me that the ship was crawling with “crackers,” which, he explained, were racist white people from the South, and he advised me to avoid them like the plague. “That sonofabitch captain of this ship is a cracker from Texas, my home state,” said Slim. “He hates our guts but he can’t do a fuckin’ thing about it ’cause he knows that if he fucks with us, the union will fuck with him. We’re all NMU (National Maritime Union).”

  When we had exhausted the subject of race relations, Slim started acting peculiar. Although it was stifling in the cabin, he closed the porthole. Then he checked the door to make sure it was locked.

  “Do you smoke reefer?” he wanted to know all of a sudden.

  “I smoke all brands,” I told him, although I was sure I had never heard of Reefer cigarettes before. But instead of offering me a cigarette, he reached for a small can that contained strange-looking, sawdustlike tobacco. Next, he picked up a tiny piece of paper and started rolling himself an even stranger-looking cigarette, which he twirled to a point at one end while leaving it unevenly lumpy in the middle. Then he licked all over his handiwork to keep the whole thing from coming apart.

  I couldn’t understand why an American, who could buy all the Camels, Lucky Strikes, Chesterfields, and Pall Malls he wanted, bothered with making his own crummy-looking cigarettes. When Smitty noticed my puzzlement, he asked me whether I had ever smoked “weed” or “grass.” I told him, quite truthfully, that as far as I knew, I had not. “What about tea?” Slim wanted to know. I naively informed him that some Germans, for want of real tobacco and out of desperation, occasionally smoked tea in their pipes, but “weed” and “grass” I’d never even heard about.

  Slim explained that reefer, weed, grass, and tea were all slang terms for marijuana, a plant whose leaves, if smoked, could get you as high as you would get from drinking alcohol. He then lighted his “cigarette” at the pointed end and started to inhale the strangely sweet-smelling smoke in spastic, hissing increments. Holding his breath, he made weird noises that sounded as if he were swallowing the smoke. After what seemed like minutes, when I felt his lungs must be about to explode, he exhaled in a long breath, then quickly reinhaled the same smoke in brief staccato sniffs. After a while, Slim passed the joint to Smitty, who repeated the bizarre ritual. When most of the joint had gone up in smoke, the two tried to persuade me to give pot a try.

  “This here shit is the best shit I’ve smoked in a long time,” Slim assured me.

  “Don’t come no better,” seconded Smitty.

  I told them that I’d take their word for it.

  Even without knowing at the time that the smoking of marijuana on a U.S. merchant vessel on a federal government mission constituted a serious criminal offense that could have landed all of us in jail, I hadn’t the slightest desire to try. The two seamen’s bizarre carrying on had been the most effective turnoff for me.

  While Slim took his postjoint nap, Smitty and I prepared to return to shore. It was Monday and my day off, and I had promised Smitty I would show him the town. “Town” meant St. Pauli, the portion of the port district where the action was. Before we left the cabin, Smitty “fixed me up” with a huge food package for my mother and me and a bag full of clothing, including a brand-new set of khakis, a set of white underwear, several pairs of white socks, a couple of the loudest neckties I had ever seen, and a whole carton of Chesterfield cigarettes.

  I didn’t know what to say or how to thank Smitty. The cigarettes alone were worth 1,000 German marks on the black market, more than my monthly musician’s pay, and the food was priceless. When I told Smitty that there was no way I could repay his kindness, he told me to forget it. But I never did.

  When we hurried on deck in order not to miss the 7 P.M. WSA launch—our last chance to get to shore that night, according to Smitty—several seamen, including the chief cook, were already waiting. I noticed that there were actually two groups waiting, one black and one white. Remembering our talk about race relations back in Smitty’s cabin, I realized that the separated grouping was not by accident.

  It was a few minutes before seven when we heard several foghorn blasts and saw the WSA launch head
full-speed toward us. Luckily, this time the gangway was down, thus sparing me another ordeal on the rope ladder. Just before the motor launch pulled alongside and we started down the gangway, Werner showed up on deck with two white seamen. He, too, was loaded down with packages, which I assumed were “donations” like mine. Mindful of Smitty’s pronouncement, “We keeps to ourselves and they keeps to theirselves,” I kept my distance. But once in the launch, Werner walked over to me and, pointing at my packages, grinned and whispered, “I see you got some CARE packages, too. I told you you’d have it made.”

  When I told him that I was about to show Smitty a good time, but that I really didn’t know where the action was, Werner advised me to take Smitty to Harms Bar on Bernhard Nocht Strasse. “There’s more action than he can handle,” Werner promised. He then explained that all the girls at Harms were hookers, no matter what they looked like, and that the going rate was a pack of cigarettes for a “quickie” and up to five packs for an all-night stay. “When you get there, ask for Hannelore,” he added. “She’ll take care of everything. Pretend that you are an American seaman. If you tell them that you are German, they won’t even give you the time of day.” Then Werner warned me to make sure not to go to the Irish Bar around the corner. “That’s where only white Americans hang out,” he explained, “and all you’ll wind up with is a fight.”

  “Where are you going?” I wanted to know.

  “I’m taking two Southern crackers to the Irish Bar,” he responded. “Strictly business,” he added, while pointing at his own CARE packages.

  When he noticed the carton of Chesterfields sticking out of one of my packages, he advised me to open the carton and distribute the packs evenly around my waist under my shirt. “Each seaman is allowed to bring one intact pack and one open pack ashore,” Werner explained. “We’ll have to pass control by British redcaps. Since limeys don’t have much to smoke themselves, they are crazy about American cigarettes. All you have to do is give them one pack and they’ll leave you alone.”

  I passed that piece of valuable information on to Smitty and the rest of the crew members, who quickly hid their cigarette cartons in the prescribed manner.

  When we reached shore, we had to file past a stern-faced British military policeman in white gloves, white belt, and white pistol holster who peered grimly at us from beneath the visor of his red cap. After each of us handed him a pack of cigarettes, his grim face melted into a broad grin and a jovial “Cheerio, Yanks,” while letting all of us pass without subjecting us to closer scrutiny.

  I had no problem finding Harms Bar, which was only a short walk from the boat landing. As soon as we entered, an accordion player launched into a rendition of an American hit in an obvious attempt to breathe some life into the place, which was nearly empty with the exception of half a dozen young women who were sitting around a table, apparently waiting for action. The way they looked at us and my packages made it obvious that we were the kind of action they had in mind. After a waiter had seated us at a table adjacent to the women, several of them gestured their eagerness to join us. Smitty was about to invite the whole gang over, but I told him to take it easy.

  The women, some no older than eighteen, looked rather wholesome and unwhorish to my untrained eyes. They seemed to take it for granted that neither of us understood German, for they were loudly speculating about the things that seemed to fascinate them most about us. One woman said that she had never gone to bed with very dark Amis because she was scared of them. “Scared of what?” asked another, who said that for her, blacks couldn’t be dark enough.

  When I translated the gist of the conversations to Smitty, he exploded with convulsive laughter that drowned out the chatter at the corner table. “You mean all the women in here are hookers?” he asked incredulously.

  “Every last one,” I replied with the air of someone who knows all the ins and outs of St. Pauli nightlife, when in fact I was just getting an elementary education myself.

  Without letting on that I spoke German, I told the waiter in English that we were looking for Hannelore. “Hannelore is right over there, the tall one with the red hair,” he replied while pointing to the women’s table nearby.

  “Would you mind asking her to come to our table?” I asked him as my hand held out an open pack of cigarettes. The waiter was only too happy to oblige.

  Hannelore was a statuesque redhead around thirty years old with stunning legs and slightly crossed eyes. When I explained to her that Yankee Werner had told us to get in touch with her, she immediately became friendly and sat down. “Yankee Werner and I are buddies,” she said in broken English. “You tell Hannelore what you want and Hannelore will try to help.”

  Without beating around the bush, I told her in broken German with a phony American accent, “Smitty and I are from the Appleton Victory. Smitty is looking for someone real nice and pretty to show him a good time until tomorrow morning when he’ll have to catch the six o’clock launch.”

  “What about you?” Hannelore wanted to know.

  “I already met a girl on my last trip,” I lied, determined not to get sidetracked since I was anxious to get home and surprise my mother with my culinary treasures from the Appleton Victory.

  When Hannelore wanted to know what type of girl Smitty preferred, the description he gave—red hair, tall, great legs—came so close to matching Hannelore’s looks that she quickly caught the hint. “Okay, what about me?” she asked.

  Smitty grinned from ear to ear, “You’ll do just fine, baby—just fine.”

  Without further ado, Hannelore moved her chair next to Smitty’s to signal to the other women that, at least for the time being, Smitty was her man.

  Gradually, the bar was filling up with more women and other black American seamen, including several from the Appleton Victory. Some of the latter joined our table, where Smitty told them, with a proprietary glance at the red bombshell beside him, how well I had taken care of him. Duly impressed, they wanted to know whether I could work the same magic for them, which, with Hannelore’s help, was no problem at all. Since neither the men nor the women were particularly picky, it took only a few minutes before each of Smitty’s buddies was matched with the fräulein of his choice.

  Throughout the evening, I saw white seamen enter the bar, then beat a hasty retreat after taking one look at the raucous interracial scene. Being hopelessly outnumbered, they were smart enough not to voice any objections, but their expressions of undisguised loathing left no doubt in my mind that in their opinion, white women—even prostitutes—had no business mixing with black men.

  Satisfied that Smitty and his cronies were well briefed and “squared away,” I once more reminded Hannelore to make sure that my pal caught the six o’clock launch the next morning, then told Smitty that I would see him aboard ship the following afternoon. After grabbing the bag of treasures that I had stowed under my chair, I wished everybody a pleasant night and headed for home.

  I decided to play hooky from my gig at the Alkazar the following day and instead return to the Appleton Victory. Hard times had long taught me not to pass up an opportunity to make hay while the sun shines.

  When, dressed in crisp, brand-new khakis, I arrived dockside to catch the noon WSA launch, Yankee Werner, my new buddy, was already waiting. Impressed with my visual transformation, Werner paid me the ultimate compliment. “You really look like an Ami now. If I didn’t know you, you could have fooled me.”

  We again arrived at the Appleton Victory. As we had done before, Werner and I split to join our respective friends on different sides of the color bar.

  Since Smitty had no shore leave that evening, he invited me to stay aboard overnight. I accepted after Slim told me I was welcome to use his bunk and that he would bunk with a buddy of his in the cabin next door. Before turning in for the night, I listened with envy as the two swapped stories about their adventures in various ports of the world.

  I had already undressed and was lying comfortably in Slim’s bunk when we hear
d a loud rap on the door. When Smitty opened the door, a seaman told him that word had reached the captain that there were unauthorized persons aboard and that he wanted them off the ship at once. That, I concluded, could only mean Werner and me.

  Smitty apologized for this unexpected turn of events but urged me to dress as quickly as possible and leave. On deck, I bumped into Werner, who had been similarly evicted and who, it turned out, was the reason why the skipper was “pissed.”

  It seems that Werner had been roaming the deck by himself when he was accosted by a man in soiled khakis who demanded to know what he was doing. Believing the man to be one of several German workers who helped with the unloading and cleaning of the ship, “all-American” Werner responded in his inimitable smart-alecky way, “What’s it to you?” That’s when the man went ballistic on him. Only after the man kept shouting, “Get your ass off my ship, you sonofabitch!” did it dawn on Werner that he had made a serious mistake, and that the soiled one was none other than the captain of the Appleton Victory.

  Smitty’s assertion that “the old man can be quite an asshole” turned out to be a huge understatement. While Werner and I were resigned to wait on the chilly deck for the day’s last launch, which was due in half an hour or so, a young deck officer informed us that the captain wanted us to get off the ship “immediately!” The officer suggested we wait for the launch outside the ship on the rope ladder if we didn’t want to run the risk that the captain would have us thrown overboard. Unwilling to test the captain’s resolve to commit murder, we reluctantly climbed over the railing and onto the ladder. There, we clung to the rungs for dear life until our arms were numb while swaying precariously in the cold night breeze above the pitch-black, gurgling water of the Elbe. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the launch arrived and our ordeal came to an end—or so we thought.

  Once aboard the small motor vessel, we were told by the skipper that he would have to drop us off at the Freihafen (free port), many miles from our destination. Since we had no cigarettes with which to change his mind, we found ourselves stranded in Hamburg’s free port, a vast peninsula reserved for the duty-free transfer and storage of freight. As we stepped ashore, the port was inhospitably dark, deserted, and cold. For want of a better idea, we decided to keep walking in the direction of the city, even if it took us all night to get home. When we saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle, we quickly jumped into a ditch and ducked until the vehicle—a jeep carrying British MPs—had passed. The place, we discovered, was crawling with MP patrols, forcing us to hit the ditch a number of times. As we stumbled on, exhausted and shivering in our thin khakis, we happened upon a small tar-paper shack that at closer inspection turned out to be a chicken house. When we opened the small unlocked door and entered, a vile, acrid stench attacked our nostrils. But the place was warm by comparison with the outside. In the glare of a lighted match, we could make out about a dozen chickens perched on a ledge, clucking at us with displeasure over the nighttime intrusion.