Destined to Witness

  Although Fred did most of the talking, her smiling blue eyes that examined me with undisguised curiosity relieved me of the nagging fear that she might be interested in Fred instead of me. Fortunately, Fred was quite content to pursue the redhead, whose name was Hannah. After inviting Hannah to accompany him to a movie, he left the field wide open for me to get better acquainted with Ingeborg, the blonde. Ingeborg told me that she was eighteen years old—four years younger than I—and that she lived with her mother (the woman we had seen her with earlier), her handicapped father, and a younger sister and brother.

  I had only once experienced love, with Gretchen, and never at first sight, but this time Cupid’s arrow struck me like lightning and with tornado force. The fact that Ingeborg told me before the evening was up that she felt the same way about me made my feelings for her even more intense. There was no rational explanation why I would feel that strongly about a person I had known only for a few hours, but reason didn’t figure much in the emotional quagmire into which I had slipped head over heels.

  Just as I was about to build dream castles about a life with this angel by my side, I realized that I was scheduled to leave Germany in less than a month. Suddenly, my desire to roam had evaporated. How could I take off for some unknown part of the world and leave this beautiful creature behind for someone else to appreciate? For a moment I weighed the possibility of postponing or canceling my journey to Liberia, but I immediately dismissed the thought, realizing that my opportunity to leave Germany might never come again.

  When I told Ingeborg that my days in Hamburg were numbered and why, she started crying. “I knew from the first moment I saw you that this was too good to be true, that somewhere there would be a catch. So this is it,” she sobbed.

  I told her that this didn’t have to be “it,” and that I would either send for her after I had gotten settled in Liberia, the way I planned to send for my mother, or return to Germany. For the time being she was satisfied with my solution and we decided to make the most of the days we had left together. Since I had no more show business obligations and had long turned my back on the beachcomber life, I had nothing but time on my hands.

  Like two star-crossed lovers, we crammed what seemed like a lifetime of living and loving into three short weeks. Ingeborg introduced me to her family, who welcomed me with open arms, and I introduced her to my mother, who immediately bonded with her. During the day, we went for romantic walks in some of the many forests surrounding Hamburg, and in the evening, we wound up in intimate bars or the cavernous Haus Vaterland. Wherever we showed up, we were the immediate focus of attention, obviously because of the hard-to-ignore contrast we presented. People who liked what they saw smiled at us with approval, and people who didn’t were smart enough not to let their disapproval show.

  Before we knew it, the day had come for me to leave Germany for Africa. To spare my mother and me painfully long goodbyes, we had agreed that I would take my leave from her in our apartment and that Fred and Inge would accompany me to Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, where I would catch the train for Aalborg, Denmark. Suddenly, the thought of leaving my mother behind all by herself seemed unbearable to me, but when she noticed that I was fighting with myself to overcome my scruples, she told me firmly that she would be all right and that my leaving for Africa would eventually benefit both of us. Thus assured of her blessing, I hugged her one more time, then followed Inge and Fred into the street. When I looked up, I caught one last glimpse of my mother waving from the window.

  By the time we arrived at the station, the train that was to take me to Denmark was already waiting on the tracks. I immediately boarded, stowed my luggage in my compartment, then rejoined Inge and Fred on the platform for final farewells. Minutes later, I was waving at the two as my train pulled out of the station, wondering whether I would ever see them again.

  DAKAR

  I was much too preoccupied with my thoughts about what I had left behind and what would be in store for me to pay much attention to Aalborg, a large seaport and one of the oldest cities in Denmark, during my brief cab ride from the train station to where the Bornholm was docked. After I boarded the seven-thousand-ton ship, I was greeted by the ship’s chief steward, who instructed a boy of about fifteen to take me to my cabin and to show me to the captain’s private stateroom, where, he explained, all my meals would be served, since the freighter had no dining facilities for passengers.

  When I arrived at the captain’s salon for the first scheduled evening meal, Captain Hartmann introduced me to a young Danish fellow by the name of Aage Kelstedt, who, he said, was a friend and guest of the Bornholm’s owner and the only other passenger besides me. Aage and I hit it off. He told me that he had just finished his first semester of college, and that he had never been in Africa before either and looked forward to the experience.

  Until our arrival in Dakar, where the Bornholm was to go into dry dock for several days of repairs, our journey was pleasant and uneventful. Throughout the days, Aage and I would roam the ship, chat with off-duty crew members, read books, or lounge in easy chairs on deck. At night, we would sleep in our cabins, which seemed tiny compared with the ones I had seen on the American freighters I had visited in Hamburg.

  The only interruptions in our monotonous routine were our mealtimes as guests of the captain. Captain Hartmann stood on punctuality, we were told by the cabin boy. So to keep him happy, we made it our business to be seated at our designated places at the table at least ten minutes before the skipper’s scheduled arrival.

  Despite his resemblance to old St. Nick, the captain turned out to be a humorless, dour man who seemed to dislike the idea of having to give up some of his privacy for two young men who didn’t interest him in the least. As a result, the table conversation dragged like molasses, mainly about the increasingly oppressive heat. When the captain noticed that I was perspiring profusely, he advised me cheerfully, “You better get used to it, because where you are going, it’s even hotter.”

  Somehow, I got the impression that Captain Hartmann didn’t like me very much. All I can say to that is that the feeling was definitely mutual.

  The first land we sighted after several days at sea was the Canary Islands. One of the ship’s officers explained to Aage and me that the islands served Christopher Columbus as bases during his exploration of America and that Generalissimo Francisco Franco launched his Nationalist revolution from them. “It won’t be long now,” the officer said encouragingly, “and we’ll be arriving at Dakar.”

  As the Bornholm tied up dockside in Dakar Harbor, I got my very first, long-awaited glimpse of Africa. Looking down from the Bornholm’s deck to a freighter being unloaded adjacent to us, I saw a strange, seemingly endless procession of spindly figures carrying huge bags of a grayish powdery substance on their heads to nearby trucks. The spindly figures, it turned out, were near-naked workers, and the substance, which covered them from head to toe, was cement.

  Despite the dizzying heat, they were loudly chanting in harmony and moving to the rhythm of their chant while their feet churned up clouds of lung-searing cement dust. As if totally oblivious to their wretched condition, they gave no indication that they were anything but comfortable. From time to time, a khaki-clad black overseer would hose down the workers with a stream of water, instantly transforming the gray figures into glistening ebony-hued young men, some barely in their teens.

  I was appalled that these youths, who should have been playing and going to school, worked under such inhumane conditions, most likely for exceedingly meager wages.

  “Well, how do you like Africa so far?” the voice of Captain Hartmann interrupted my thoughts. When I told him how I felt about the spectacle before us, he cautioned me not to be too rash in my judgment. “Your father controls an army of laborers, some no older than these. As you will soon see, it made him a very rich man.”

  The captain’s remarks did nothing to endear my father to me, but I decided to reserve judgment until I had a chance to see things with my o
wn eyes. Somehow, I was suspicious of the captain’s motive for telling me what he did, although I couldn’t think of any good reason for doubting his words.

  Three young Danish ship’s officers I had befriended invited me to go with them ashore that afternoon. I gladly accepted, as I could hardly wait to set foot on Mother Africa. Because of my African family ties, I subscribed to neither the Eurocentric image of the “Dark Continent” nor Hollywood’s romanticized Tarzan jungle idyll. Yet I could still respond to Africa’s exotic lure and promise of high adventure. On the latter score, I was not to be disappointed.

  The Dakar of 1948 was a bustling, cosmopolitan city still rife with symbols of France’s deeply entrenched colonial authority. French tricolors were flying from every government building of Senegal’s capital and black soldiers and their white French officers, as well as detachments of the French Foreign Legion, were a common sight. The markets teemed with gesticulating people in flowing robes and an occasional camel or donkey carried oversize loads. In addition to the many exotic sights that helped convince me that I had finally succeeded in getting out of Germany, a pervasive sweet smell of tropical vegetation heightened my sense of being a long way from what used to be home.

  As we approached a fruit stand, my attention was drawn to a display of beautiful plump bananas. Due to the severe curtailment of tropical food imports in Germany during and after the war, I hadn’t seen, much less eaten, a banana for at least eight years. When I asked the vendor how much he wanted for a half dozen bananas, he communicated with his fingers a certain number of colonial francs. While I counted out the required number of large-size bills, another fruit merchant pulled me to the side and gestured that he would give me the same number of bananas for half the price. The Danes advised me to go with the better deal, but before I could finalize the transaction, the first vendor started such a ruckus that it attracted people from all over the marketplace. Eventually, a black policeman showed up. After listening to the vendor’s complaint, he ordered us with an unmistakable gesture of his baton to follow him to the police station. With the screaming vendor in tow, we wound our way through the thick crowds of people who were eyeing us with hostility. Since the vendor did all his ranting in French, we hadn’t the slightest idea what he was complaining about. While I could sympathize with his disappointment over having lost out to a competitor, I couldn’t imagine what made him think he had a right to demand that I buy from him.

  At the police station, we were herded into a large room with several desks occupied by African policemen. While we were waiting our turn to be brought before the police prefect, a white detainee in one of the cells behind us whispered to us in English to keep our cool and “for God’s sake not make any waves” unless we felt like joining him. Identifying himself as a Dutch seaman, he told us that when he refused to pay a bribe to two policemen whom he had asked for directions at night, they arrested him for disorderly conduct. “I’ve been in here for over a week already,” he said despondently, “and my consulate still hasn’t been able to get me out.”

  When finally we stood before the police officer in charge, a Frenchman in khaki uniform, he invited the vendor to state his case. For several minutes the vendor ranted and raved, the way he had done outside, while frequently pointing toward my companions and me. When the Frenchman gestured that he had heard enough, I assumed he was now ready to listen to our side, but I assumed wrong. Before I could finish my first sentence, the official shouted rudely, “Ferme ta gueule,” which even I knew meant “Shut up.” Remembering the advice from the Dutch seaman, I did just that.

  The Frenchman then ordered us in fluent, yet heavily French-accented English to empty our pockets of all money and put it on his desk in front of him. After counting the thick wad of bills, the prefect handed the vendor the amount he had asked for his bananas, put the rest into his desk drawer, then pointed at the door and shouted at us, “Allez!” which, we figured out instantly, meant “Get out!”

  The ship’s officers and I were livid, but we wisely kept our anger and commentary regarding the Gallic system of justice in check until we were well out of hearing distance of the police station. The only way we could explain what had just happened to us was that we had been the victims of a scam played by the vendor and the police official at our expense.

  Bananas, it seemed, were a cursed commodity that forever eluded my grasp. At that moment, I really didn’t care, since during our short adventure I had totally lost my banana appetite. It took several months before I was able to look at bananas without feeling a sense of rage and even longer before I could stomach the idea of eating them.

  The following evening, when the officers invited me to come along for a night on the town, I was ready to give Dakar another chance. At night, the city seemed even more exotic and mysterious than during the day. Except for an occasional furtive figure and several homeless persons sleeping on the sidewalks, the dimly lighted streets were empty. Fortunately, we were able to hail a taxi. After we asked the native driver in Danish, German, and English whether he could take us to where the action was, his eyes lit up in sudden comprehension. “Oui, Monsigneurs.” He smacked his lips and kissed the joined fingertips of his right hand. “Beaucoup beautiful la femme.” After what seemed like a never-ending ride through Dakar—no doubt along the “scenic route”—we stopped in front of a nightclub called Le Moulin Rouge, a place that had little in common with its famous nineteenth-century Paris namesake except its ill repute.

  Our waitress, a pretty Eurafrican girl with olive skin and a close-cropped Afro, let us know in perfect English that she and her colleagues were “at our service,” ready to heighten our comfort level. All around us were white men and African women openly engaged in behavior that made St. Pauli’s waterfront bars seem tame by comparison. We opted for champagne and listening to the seductive French tunes of a velvet-voiced African piano player.

  It was quite late when we went back to the Bornholm. As I felt in no mood to face old sourpuss over breakfast, I quickly scribbled the words, PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB! on a piece of cardboard and attached it to the outside of my cabin door before falling into a comalike sleep.

  When I awakened and looked through the porthole, it was broad daylight. A glance at my watch informed me that it was almost time to get ready for lunch. Apparently, the cabin boy had heeded my message and left me alone. Still feeling a bit hungover, I congratulated myself on my quick thinking, which had allowed me several precious extra hours of sleep. As I left my cabin to have lunch in the captain’s quarters, I noticed that my cardboard sign was gone.

  Aage was already seated at the captain’s table when I arrived. “The captain had a fit this morning when you didn’t show up,” Aage told me. “He said you insulted him by putting a do-not-disturb sign on your door.”

  While it was true that it was with Hartmann’s unpleasant attitude in mind that I had decided to forgo breakfast, it had never occurred to me that he would take my absence so personally. I resolved to apologize and unruffle his feathers, if that’s what it took to clear the air between us. But my opportunity to negotiate a reconciliation with him never came. “The captain will not be coming,” the captain’s steward informed us. “You may go ahead and eat.”

  When he didn’t show up for supper or for breakfast the following morning, it dawned on me that he intended to deprive me of the dubious pleasure of his company for the rest of my stay on board. That was fine with me. I could never stand the old geezer anyway, and the less I saw of him, the better.

  One sizzling hot morning, the repaired Bornholm slipped out of Dakar Harbor and headed for the open Atlantic. After a couple of days, the African coast came back into view, and before long, we could see the hilly city of Monrovia, baking in the West African sun.

  Throughout our journey from Dakar, I had seen Captain Hartmann only from a distance standing on the bridge, and the few times our paths crossed on deck, he pointedly ignored me. My Danish friends aboard told me not to let the captain’s hostility get
to me. They explained that he hated the idea that I didn’t kowtow to him and that he couldn’t bully me the way he bullied his crew.

  The deck officer told me that Monrovia Harbor, which was under construction by the U.S. Navy, would be completed in a few months. Until then, he explained, the Bornholm had to anchor a few miles off the coast. He said that my father would come aboard by rowboat. “That’s him now,” he exclaimed, pointing to what looked like a tiny boat in the distance. As the boat came closer, I could make out eight oarsmen who were chanting rhythmically in response to their helmsman’s shouts. Their tattered, soiled clothes were in sharp contrast to the immaculate white suit worn by the black man who was seated just below the helmsman. I couldn’t make out the man’s face because it was covered by a white pith helmet, but there was no doubt that the man under that helmet was a person of considerable authority.

  As my father walked up the gangway that had been lowered for the occasion, he was greeted by Captain Hartmann, who welcomed him aboard like a visiting potentate while the Bornholm’s crew members on deck looked on with undisguised curiosity. The only thing missing from the scene, I thought, was a multiple-gun salute. I found that the officers had not exaggerated when they described my father as an extremely formal, no-nonsense type of man. Although I noticed that he was slightly shorter than I, I already felt intimidated by the air of authority that emanated from him. Hundreds of times I had rehearsed in my mind my pending reunion with him—I would simply give him a big hug and tell him how happy I was to see him. But when I actually came face-to-face with him and looked into his eyes, which were noncommittal after nearly two decades of separation, he seemed like a total stranger to me and I froze.

  “It’s good to see you made it all right,” he said while formally shaking my hand.