Destined to Witness

  That’s all my mother needed to hear. “Paul,” she raged, “has forgotten that twenty-five years earlier he was a starving, dirt-poor immigrant from Germany, who would never have made it to the United States were it not for the help of our sister Martha and our brother Hermann. Now he has the nerve to look down on other people because of their race. But he doesn’t ever have to worry about being embarrassed by us. As of today, I no longer have a brother named Paul. As far as I am concerned, he’s already dead!”

  It was a vow my mother kept for the remainder of her life. Paul, for his part, lived up to Clara’s allegations of racial prejudice and never extended himself to my mother or me. Although Mutti eventually did move to the United States, where for twenty-five years she lived a mere forty-minute car ride from Paul, she never visited or called him, and when he died, she refused to attend his funeral.

  BUSTED

  Taking care of business on the waterfront without Werner at my side for logistical and moral support was difficult at first, but I managed. One day, however, when I least expected it, I ran into my first case of potentially serious trouble.

  Having just returned from an American ship, I had taken a small group of black seamen to a bar for the usual combination of business, booze, and babes. It was broad daylight and already the bar was packed. We could not have been there more than fifteen minutes when we heard shrill whistles and loud commands outside. Looking out of the window, I saw several jeeps lined up at the curb. Seconds later, blue-uniformed, white-hatted, pistol-toting men from the British Port Controller’s office poured through the door. Indiscriminately, they picked several Americans, both black and white, and hustled them out of the door and onto the waiting jeeps. Unfortunately, I was one of the captives. After a short ride to the Port Controller’s office, we were told to wait in a large room from where we were called individually into an adjoining room for interrogation.

  When it was my turn to be questioned, I was confronted by several officers who were seated at a long table. One of them ordered me to empty the contents of my pockets on the table. When I produced a fresh carton of Chesterfields from under my jacket, the officers grinned gleefully, obviously pleased with themselves for having caught at least one culprit redhanded.

  “Let me see your shore-leave pass!” the officer demanded.

  “I don’t have a shore-leave pass,” I replied.

  “So you left your ship without permission?” the officer insisted.

  “No, I did not,” was my stubborn reply.

  “If you are not in possession of a valid shore-leave pass from your purser, you are on shore illegally and thus subject to arrest,” the officer lectured me.

  Realizing that I really hadn’t broken any law, I was beginning to enjoy playing cat-and-mouse with the haughty British officer.

  “Do you have any identification on you?” the officer demanded irritably.

  I pointed to my blue, photoless German Kennkarte, which I had put on the table with several other objects, including a lighter and a pack of chewing gum. The officer picked up my ID card and carefully studied the writing.

  “According to this you are a German national and not an American seaman?” the officer continued.

  “That is correct,” I conceded.

  “Then how did you come into possession of this carton of cigarettes? How did you pay for it? And what had you planned to do with it? You realize that black marketeering is a serious offense?” the officer inquired, convinced he had driven me into a corner from which there was no escape.

  “I didn’t pay anything for the cigarettes,” I responded. “They were a gift from an American seaman who gave them to me when I visited his ship.”

  Turning sarcastic, the officer asked, “Are you saying then that all I have to do is board an American ship and the people will give me free cartons of cigarettes?”

  “I doubt that seriously,” I told the officer.

  “Then why you and not me?” the officer pressed on.

  This time I responded with a bomb. “Because you are white and I am black! The seaman who gave me the cigarettes was a black man who felt sorry for me when he heard that I had lived in Nazi Germany during the war.”

  My explanation was followed by embarrassed silence on the part of my interrogator until another officer apologized for the inconvenience they had caused me and told me that I was free to leave with my belongings, including the cigarettes. But before I had made it out of the building, I was followed by another of my interrogators, a young lieutenant. For a moment I thought that the officers had changed their minds about letting me go, but the young officer reassured me that I had nothing to worry about. “I wonder whether I could talk to you for a moment.”

  Realizing that I really didn’t have much of a choice, I followed him into a small, empty office. There he told me that his office had received reports that four “colored” American soldiers had deserted their post in Bremen and apparently were hiding out on Hamburg’s waterfront with the help of some German women. He said that according to reports, these men were responsible for several burglaries and holdups in the area and must therefore be considered dangerous. I recalled that several days earlier I had run into three black GIs accompanied by three German women as they were strolling through St. Pauli. We had said “hi” to each other as we passed, but since they had shown no interest in getting to know me better, I had walked on. American soldiers, especially black American soldiers, were exceedingly rare in British-occupied Hamburg, and I had no doubt that the three GIs I had seen were part of the quartet the British authorities were looking for.

  The lieutenant told me that his office suspected that the deserters were hanging around the waterfront in hopes of befriending black seamen from a U.S.-bound American ship in order to stow away. “I know you do not approve of robbers and burglars,” the officer continued in a transparent effort to butter me up. “That’s why I thought that you might want to help us apprehend these men. In return, we would issue you a dock pass that would authorize you to enter the dock area and ships without interference from the port authorities. All you have to do is be on the lookout for any colored American soldiers.” With that, he filled out a dock pass made out to me and valid for one month. He also handed me a piece of paper on which he had written his rank, name, and telephone number. “If you see or hear anything, you can reach me at this number. I don’t care what time of day or night,” he said, “just call. Will you do that for us?”

  “I’d be glad to,” I lied. I hadn’t the slightest intention of becoming a Judas to black American soldiers who, perhaps because they were treated like second-class citizens, had become fed up with army life and were trying to make it back home. Not for one second did I believe those “reports” about robberies and holdups by black soldiers. But even if they were true, I was not interested in becoming a stoolie for the British.

  In the weeks to come, the dock pass came in mighty handy, since it enabled me to enter and leave the dock area without having to worry about inquisitive MPs. With every MP in port on the lookout for black deserters, my complexion had quickly reverted from an asset to a serious liability. But thanks to my pass, I was able to slip into and out of the dragnet at will and without a hitch.

  I soon learned through the waterfront grapevine that one of the four deserters had been captured and sent back to his unit in Bremen for court-martial proceedings, while three were alive and well but lying low at the homes of some of Hannelore’s friends. The men reportedly were biding their time to make their move. The lieutenant was right about one thing. Hannelore confirmed that they were trying to stow away on an American ship. She told me that her friends had fallen madly in love with the fugitives and would do anything to help them get away, but she denied the claims that they were thieves.

  A few weeks later, while on my nightly round of some of my favorite waterfront hangouts, I watched a dozen or so jeeps loaded with British MPs pull up in front of an apartment building that Hannelore had pointed out to me as
the hiding place of the black GIs. After dismounting, the MPs unholstered their sidearms and, on a hand signal from an officer, rushed into the building. Within a few minutes a small crowd of passersby had gathered across the street from the building’s entrance. Wondering what the commotion was about, some ventured that it was a black-market raid. Although I had a pretty good idea otherwise, I kept my mouth shut. I hoped that the raiders would find the nest empty, but no such luck. When they emerged a few minutes later, they were surrounding three handcuffed, sullen-looking black GIs. As quickly as they had come, the jeeps sped away, the crowd dispersed, and the street turned back to normal as if nothing had happened.

  I had no idea what was in store for them, but whatever their fate, I was glad that I had nothing to do with their capture.

  AFRICA-BOUND

  I had almost given up ever hearing from my father again when one day an airmail letter arrived that was impossible to overlook because of its large size and the brilliant colors of its exotic-looking postage stamps. It was the long-awaited letter from my father.

  A flood of conflicting emotions took hold of me as I prepared to open the letter, the first tangible link in almost eighteen years with the man my mother had taught me to call father despite the fact that from the time he left us, while I was still a little boy, he had been largely a stranger to me. Time and absence had not made my heart grow fonder of him. If I felt anything about him, it was detached curiosity. Who was this Al-Haj Massaquoi, the man I had heard so much about throughout my life and whom, my mother kept insisting, I resembled in so many ways? Why had he left us in Germany without bothering to help when we badly needed help?

  The letter, typed in English, started simply, “Dear Hans-Jürgen.” Thanking me for my letter dated January 8, 1948, my father explained that he was much relieved learning that my mother and I had survived the war, since he had feared for some time that we had both been killed. Immediately upon receipt of my letter, he wrote, he had applied for a Liberian passport for me in preparation for having me come to Liberia. To expedite matters, he asked me to send him a set of passport photos of myself as soon as possible. He suggested that I should come to Liberia first, and that if I found the country to my liking, he would arrange for my mother to follow.

  Then came the bad news, which I had suspected and dreaded for some time. “I am sorry having to tell you that your grandfather, Momolu, has been dead since 1938.” I recalled how, when I was a little boy, my grandfather promised me that one day when I came to Liberia he would show me the crown he had worn when he was king of the Vais. For a moment I could hear his roaring laughter in response to my stories; next, I could see us once again strolling along the Alster and feeding cantaloupe leftovers to the swans. Realizing that he was gone for good filled me with a sense of irreparable loss. Then I read on. “Due to the political situation that prevailed in this country,” my father wrote, “I was not able to do much between the years 1930 and 1943. But things are somewhat better now with a president (William V. S. Tubman) who is friendly disposed towards me.”

  Underplaying his wealth, my father wrote that he was doing all right as an entrepreneur involved in import-export trade with Denmark, a steamship agency, and several transportation ventures that included a few diesel-powered trucks and buses and a large diesel-powered motor vessel used for passenger service along the coast.

  Confiding that he and Auntie Fatima were no longer on speaking terms since her return from her studies in the United States, he explained that “all at once she had it in her head that your grandfather left millions that should come to her. Instead of approaching me in a decent manner, she joined a certain wretched brother of mine [Nat] in legal actions against me. They are still spending the few dollars they have on lawyers and have gotten nowhere with the matter as yet. Now she is ashamed and does not come around me anymore. She will, perhaps, tell you all about it when you come out.”

  After this bit of family dirt, my father explained that he had contacted his Danish friend and business colleague, Harold Nissen, as the Liberian consul general in Copenhagen, who would be in touch with me shortly to arrange my passage to Liberia via Denmark on the Danish freighter Bornholm.

  Promising to write again very soon, my father concluded sheepishly, “Why does your mother not write me herself? Perhaps she does not care for me any more?!!!”

  While my big dream had always been to one day go to the United States, I quickly made the necessary mental adjustment and settled—for the time being at least—for Africa. My father’s plan of having me join him in Liberia received the full approval of my mother, who had long resigned herself to the certainty that there would come a time when I would leave her. Firmly convinced that it was necessary for me to get out of Germany in order to reach my full potential, she had always encouraged me to pursue my dream of a future abroad, even if it meant that we would have to separate for a while.

  As much as I had wanted to leave Germany, I had mixed emotions about going to Africa. But after discussing the matter with various people, I became convinced that moving to Liberia was better than being stuck in devastated Germany, and, besides, if I didn’t like Liberia, I could always go to the United States.

  Within a few weeks of hearing from my father, the U.S. Consulate General in Hamburg informed me that it represented Liberian consular interests and that a Liberian passport in my name had arrived, which I should pick up at my convenience. It had to be signed in the presence of a consul and, as a result, could not be sent through the mail. A Liberian passport would once and for all end my existence in the nationality twilight zone in which I had lived for so long under the Nazis. Most important, my passport would enable me to leave Germany legally any time I felt like it, a privilege that, during the immediate postwar years under Allied occupation, was denied German citizens.

  Next, as announced by my father, I received a letter from Consul General Nissen, informing me that the necessary arrangements for my trip to Liberia had been completed. He explained that the Bornholm had just left Liberia and was scheduled to make a brief stop at Hamburg prior to returning to its home port in Aalborg, Denmark. He advised me to take that opportunity to meet with Captain Hartmann, the ship’s master, to discuss details of my trip.

  Having visited dozens of American freighters during my beachcomber days on Hamburg’s waterfront, I felt quite at home when I stepped on the deck of the Bornholm for my visit with Captain Hartmann. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had entered Hamburg Harbor on legitimate business.

  The captain, a burly man with thinning gray hair and a ruddy complexion, seemed annoyed at first at the interruption, then mellowed after I told him who I was. “So you are young Massaquoi—well, well,” he remarked. I had no idea what “well, well” meant in this context, and he didn’t bother to explain. Hartmann told me to be ready within two months to travel by train to Aalborg in order to board the Bornholm for my trip to Liberia. Now that my departure was imminent, I suddenly had mixed feelings about leaving Germany so soon, but I assured the captain that I would be in Aalborg on time.

  When I asked him whether he knew my father and what life was like in Africa, the captain told me that he had been doing business with my father for many years and that, as far as my future lifestyle was concerned, I would have it made. “Your father is very well fixed,” he insisted. As if to back up his words, he fetched an envelope from a desk drawer and handed it to me. “He asked me to give you this to tide you over until you get to Monrovia and in case you need to buy a few things for the trip.”

  As soon as I had left the Bornholm, I tore open the envelope and counted the money. There was five hundred dollars in crisp ten-dollar bills—a veritable fortune by prevailing black-market rates. At first I was moved by my father’s generosity, until I reminded myself that this was the first money he had spent on me in nearly twenty years.

  From the moment I learned my departure date, I started counting the days with eager anticipation. Then something happened that I had
n’t foreseen, something that almost changed my plans.

  Fred and I had been making our usual rounds of Hamburg when we stepped on the el-train platform at Kellinghusen station in order to change trains. As we looked to the next platform across the tracks, we spotted two women, one young and remarkably pretty with shoulder-length blond hair, the other middle-aged and, as far as we were concerned, nondescript. We smiled at the young woman to let her know that we approved. To our surprise, she not only smiled back, but waved at us invitingly. As my testosterone production kicked into high gear, I deliberated feverishly what could be done to keep this angel from simply slipping away. In a matter of seconds her train would arrive and take her to an unknown destination where I would never see her again.

  Suddenly, I had an idea. Pointing toward the large station clock, which indicated around 4 P.M., I held up eight fingers, then pointed toward me and the platform on which we stood. To my great relief, the blonde signaled back that she had understood and that she, too, would be back at 8 P.M. A few seconds later, her train arrived and she was gone.

  Four hours later, after endless speculation whether or not the blonde would keep our date, Fred and I were back on the platform. To our surprise, the blonde was already there. This time, she was accompanied by a tall young redhead with a nice figure but a rather ordinary face. Close up, the blonde was even more stunning than I had imagined her to be from across the tracks.