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| The Crew has landed - smoking is next |
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| One of those 'well equipped' Russian soldiers |
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| Sail gliding 101 - the pilot in a really safe position! |
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Another Face of those 'damned' Russians
We are now in the year 1954/55, I am in year five and started to learn Russian - a compulsory subject in them days. Naturally, there was no English taught back then in East Germany.
There was of course an advantage in learning the language spoken in the rest of the world - according to Sovjet propaganda! The rest of the world being everything east of the 'Iron Curtain' - the border between East and West Germany - and all the way to Siberia.
There are two (maybe three) events embedded in my mind from that period.
One was us boys using my uncles paddleboat to cross the river and meet up with the Russian soldiers 'incarcerated' on the other side of the river.
Let me explain: the other side of the river is a peninsula bordered by the river Staabe and Krimnick lake. It used to be a 'landed gentry' retreat with quite large buildings on it. The Russians commandeered the property since it was quite easy to fence off the frontage to the road. This made a garrison out of the old mansion and adjacent buildings. They stationed about 100 to 250 men there, presumably to npb trouble in the butt post the June 17, 1953 workers' uprising, to ostensibly present a strong face in the region.
The poor buggers 'interned' there had little to do or enjoy. They were allowed into the nearest town, Koenigs Wusterhausen, about once a fortnight.
During the warmer months (May to early October) us boys would use the boat to paddle across the river and spend time with some of them.
They seemed quite comfortable with us, we'd take them whatever fruit or vegetables were in season. In return, they would share some of hteir rations with us, mainly some horrible tasting imitation chocolate and cookies.
BUT - most importantly - they taught us to smoke!!
Their poison of choice was something called MACHORKA! It has been variously described as 'Farmers Tobacco' and 'Stalin shred'.
They taught us that it was most important to use the right newspaper to roll the cigarettes! Neither 'Neues Deutschland', the mouthpiece of the ruling party in East Germany, nor any of the West Berlin/German newspapers were any good. ONLY the PRAVDA was of any use: because it had wide clear margins at the bottom and you could roll your fag, lick the paper and it would stick.
So, there we are, elevn to twelve year old boys learning to smoke with great gusto!
Now that would be just so socially unacceptable these days it isn't funny.
How did we know and recognise these guys?
Not only did we learn Russian, which was one aim of visiting them to practice our new-found language skills, we also spend many weekends with them sailgliding.
YES, sailgliding. Somehow these guys had acquired a sailglider and volunteered their time, after all they had bugger else to do, to teach us whippersnippers how to operate a sailglider.
It involved one of us sitting in the 'pilots' seat and being launched of a cliff face! The cliff face was an embankment into a disused quarry. We'd get enough speed and some lift to glide a few metres and then come to a grinding halt.
The soldiers were disperesed all over the 'airfield' to ensure we did not die. They had a long tow rope to retrive the glider at the end of the flight and labouriously hauled it back up to the top of the precipe to give another guy a go. It was always the same five or six guys who attended these sessions. And they were the guys we'd paddle accross the river to meet, swap supplies, and practice our Russian.
By the way, the older boys were priviliged to actually soar in a proper glider. The Russians had secured a special winch which could launch a glider via a very long steel cable and a powerfull winch driven by a diesel engine. Small problem though: the beast was very temperamental, it would sometimes take ages to start. Might have had something to do with that the engine was about a thousand years old and really 'clapped out'. But them Russians were experts in kicking life into old machinerey. They had learned from a young age to make do with what was available. Repairing broken machinery using whatever they could find in a scrap heap gave them great satisfaction and they would positively beam with pride every time they got the winch beast to perform properly.
Them were the days when TV was unheard of and we marveled at a few comic books (in COLOUR) smuggeled from the West. They would make the rounds till they literally fell apart.
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Journey into another World
It was in late 1952 that Mum found out Dad had died in Buchenwald Gulag in October 1947. Since the Gulag did not officially exist the authorities weren't too forthcoming with information about inmates. Their logic was quite compelling: No Gulag - No Inmates!
There was an outfit in West-Berlin called the 'Free Lawyers' - free as in liberated, but also free in the other sense of the word - they didn't charge for their services. Returned gulag inmates were, via the grapevine, invited to come in and go through, what is nowadays called, a debriefing. Things like where they'd been (there were several gulags across East Germany), whom they'd been with, who had been released and who died.
Once this outfit had at least three reliable witness accounts of a person's death it was duly recorded and one could obtain a 'proper' death certificate from them. We finally did manage to obtain the certificate, two of the witnesses fortunately (or not) were fellow inmates, doctors who had no resources or facillities to help my sick dad. The certificate was useless in East Germany since there were no inmates - see above.
But it would come in handy later on when we 'defected' to the West - however, that will be subject to another blog.
Mum to her dying day always asserted that she knew when her husband had died, she had a feeling in her bones. It was simply a matter of getting proper confirmation that her feelings were right.
So, there was no mourning or closure required. Mum made plans! The plan was to visit her twin sister who lived outside Munich in a little hamlet called Locham.
Now, things weren't that easy then. You couldn't just hop on a train and go to Munich. First off, one had to apply (in quadruplicate) to the proper authorities for an exit visa. The application was then scrutinised by the Stasi, the local council, the party apparatus, the local police and whoever else wanted to put their sniffer in the matter. Due to German thoroughness, which never changed since Emperor Wilhelm and PM Bismarck were at the helm in eighteen hundred goodness knows when, the proper procedure had to be followed and the application had to pass from one authority to other with the required approval stamp. If one of them disapproved, the application was rejected.
That saga took months and Mum had wisely decided that we would make the trip in July 1953 during my summer school holidays.
As happens often in life, something happened that, potentially, put a spanner in the works! On June 17, 1953 there was a massive workers uprising, especially in Berlin. It escalated throughout the day to cover virtually every major town and region. The response was quite swift - the Russian army mobilised all the tanks they had in East Germany (well as many that were half-way functional) to crush the dissidents.
That, of course, did not go down well with our travel plans. Mum was afraid all travel to the West was going to be suspended for the time being. With our departure only four weeks away she hastily wrote a letter to her sister (no telephones then) to warn her that we might not be able to travel. Luckily, her concerns were unfounded since the powers that be decided that everything should appear normal, both internally and to the outside world.
On our appointed day we went into Berlin and boarded the 'Super-fast steam powered long distance train' - super-fast meant it could do more than 70 kmh!
Another quirk was that we were allowed to exchange ten East German Marks for ten West German Marks - whooha!! On the black market you had to pay ten East Marks for one West Mark. The banks in West Berlin were slightly more generous: they gave you one West Mark for six East Marks - try and find that generosity from banks these days!!
The train journey took, in my view, forever and ever. Mum had packed, what she thought, was an adequate supply of sandwiches and drinks - water. Because of the restricted money allowance we weren't able to purchase anything on the train since you had to pay in West Marks for anything once the train departed West Berlin. We arrived at Munich Central and had to catch another train out to Locham. But to do so we had to purchase tickets at Munich Central, the cost of which had to come out of our meagre allowance for 'hard currency', i.e. West German Marks.
Mum went up to the ticket counter (a heavily screened hole in the wall) to purchase the tickets and enquire which platform the train would depart from. The heavy-set, late fifties Bavarian on the other side told her something she didn't understand! She had to ask three times before she got the gist of what he was saying. I was flabbergasted because mum originated from Bavaria and after these few years, well thirty anyway, she could not understand the Bavarian dialect anymore.
When we were all done, tickets in hand and directions in brain, as we walked away Mum and I heard the man saying 'Saupreissan' - which means 'Bloddy Prussians' - Prussians and Bavarians have had a 'love-hate relationship' for at least the last thousand years. It has not changed to this date, I am sure, but might be more subdued nowadays because of our hankering not to offend anyone.
We soldiered on to Locham (then a separate village outside Munich - now one of it's suburbs) where we were met by Auntie Maria and Uncle Jackel at the station. The last time I had 'seen' Uncle Jackel (not that I could remember that) was in late 1944 when he visited Neue Muehle on his last furlough. I'd never met Auntie Maria before.
Once we got to their home she gave me the once over! "Theress, that boy needs some feeding, he's as scrawny as a scarecrow!" Well, Auntie Maria went to work over the next two weeks. She fed me all sorts of horrible foods - well, not quite horrible, but food I wasn't accustomed to. Like Bread so white it looked like snow - and it had no substance in it. The bread I was used to was heavy, gluggy rye bread. Chocolate and cookies that tasted yuk - anyway very sweet. Strange fruits and drinks - like something called Coca Cola - a most amazingly disgusting drink!
Auntie Maria kept feeding me - just as well I like food a LOT.
After two weeks in Locham we started on our journey back to Berlin. Of course we had to stop in Augsburg, where mum's big brother, Uncle Aluis, lived. He was then a sergeant in the local police force. From stories I'd heard about him he was the most fascinating person I'd ever wanted to meet. Uncle Aluis was one of those unfortunate people that had to 'participate', entirely voluntary of course, in both world wars.
Uncle Aluis was a big man, about six foot two in English money and 185 cm in European measurement, he must have been six axe handles across the shoulders and the most fortunate man I'd ever heard of.
In WW I he was deployed to Macedonia first and to the French battle lines fighting the English. Being a very clever country boy he soon figured out that 'if I got shot in the leg, or somewhere non-lethal, I'd be sent home for mending and recuperation. Maybe, with any sort of luck, I could see out the war in some nice German hospital'.
So, the silly bugger would leap up during battles, go on top of the trench and fire away at a rapid rate with his 'automatic' three shot rifle. Well, he was standing there till the dying days of the war. Unlucky bugger, he never got hit.
Upon the end of WW I he returned to Augsburg and joined the police force, then called the ';Schutzmannschaft', where he even got drafted into their marching band - quite a feat for somebody as tone-deaf as our family is!
When WW II got really going he was politely asked, conscripted, once again to join the circus. Where was he sent? To the Western Front of course. So, he tried the same caper and again to no avail whatsoever. Had to see it through to the bitter end, eventually being captured in the dying days of the war.
Once more, he was lucky though. He got captured by the Americans, who carted him off to a POW camp in England. The Yanks were in control of Bavaria then and needed personnel in their area. They checked out his credentials and 'misdemeanours', couldn't find anything untoward and promptly shipped him off to Augsburg to re-join the local police force to maintain law and order.
Whilst visiting Uncle Aluis he showed me his hand gun - a fascinating piece of machinery for a ten year old. He let me handle it and play with it. I scared the living daylights out of mum one afternoon when I came into the living room with this big pistol, hardly being able to hold it steady, and announcing "I have a gun". I'd never seen mum so scared and drained! But Uncle Alois had made sure there were no bullets in the chamber or the magazine.
The journey back to Berlin and on to Neue Muehle was rather uneventful. I was stuffed to the gills and in serious need of some R&R to recover from the ministrations of the relatives.
Pretty soon life returned to normal - no special treats, school every day, getting wood for the fire as winter approached and lugging coal upstairs to keep the fire burning overnight.
There was an outfit in West-Berlin called the 'Free Lawyers' - free as in liberated, but also free in the other sense of the word - they didn't charge for their services. Returned gulag inmates were, via the grapevine, invited to come in and go through, what is nowadays called, a debriefing. Things like where they'd been (there were several gulags across East Germany), whom they'd been with, who had been released and who died.
Once this outfit had at least three reliable witness accounts of a person's death it was duly recorded and one could obtain a 'proper' death certificate from them. We finally did manage to obtain the certificate, two of the witnesses fortunately (or not) were fellow inmates, doctors who had no resources or facillities to help my sick dad. The certificate was useless in East Germany since there were no inmates - see above.
But it would come in handy later on when we 'defected' to the West - however, that will be subject to another blog.
Mum to her dying day always asserted that she knew when her husband had died, she had a feeling in her bones. It was simply a matter of getting proper confirmation that her feelings were right.
So, there was no mourning or closure required. Mum made plans! The plan was to visit her twin sister who lived outside Munich in a little hamlet called Locham.
Now, things weren't that easy then. You couldn't just hop on a train and go to Munich. First off, one had to apply (in quadruplicate) to the proper authorities for an exit visa. The application was then scrutinised by the Stasi, the local council, the party apparatus, the local police and whoever else wanted to put their sniffer in the matter. Due to German thoroughness, which never changed since Emperor Wilhelm and PM Bismarck were at the helm in eighteen hundred goodness knows when, the proper procedure had to be followed and the application had to pass from one authority to other with the required approval stamp. If one of them disapproved, the application was rejected.
That saga took months and Mum had wisely decided that we would make the trip in July 1953 during my summer school holidays.
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| Russian Tank in East-Berlin June 17, 1953 |
That, of course, did not go down well with our travel plans. Mum was afraid all travel to the West was going to be suspended for the time being. With our departure only four weeks away she hastily wrote a letter to her sister (no telephones then) to warn her that we might not be able to travel. Luckily, her concerns were unfounded since the powers that be decided that everything should appear normal, both internally and to the outside world.
On our appointed day we went into Berlin and boarded the 'Super-fast steam powered long distance train' - super-fast meant it could do more than 70 kmh!
Another quirk was that we were allowed to exchange ten East German Marks for ten West German Marks - whooha!! On the black market you had to pay ten East Marks for one West Mark. The banks in West Berlin were slightly more generous: they gave you one West Mark for six East Marks - try and find that generosity from banks these days!!
The train journey took, in my view, forever and ever. Mum had packed, what she thought, was an adequate supply of sandwiches and drinks - water. Because of the restricted money allowance we weren't able to purchase anything on the train since you had to pay in West Marks for anything once the train departed West Berlin. We arrived at Munich Central and had to catch another train out to Locham. But to do so we had to purchase tickets at Munich Central, the cost of which had to come out of our meagre allowance for 'hard currency', i.e. West German Marks.
Mum went up to the ticket counter (a heavily screened hole in the wall) to purchase the tickets and enquire which platform the train would depart from. The heavy-set, late fifties Bavarian on the other side told her something she didn't understand! She had to ask three times before she got the gist of what he was saying. I was flabbergasted because mum originated from Bavaria and after these few years, well thirty anyway, she could not understand the Bavarian dialect anymore.
When we were all done, tickets in hand and directions in brain, as we walked away Mum and I heard the man saying 'Saupreissan' - which means 'Bloddy Prussians' - Prussians and Bavarians have had a 'love-hate relationship' for at least the last thousand years. It has not changed to this date, I am sure, but might be more subdued nowadays because of our hankering not to offend anyone.
We soldiered on to Locham (then a separate village outside Munich - now one of it's suburbs) where we were met by Auntie Maria and Uncle Jackel at the station. The last time I had 'seen' Uncle Jackel (not that I could remember that) was in late 1944 when he visited Neue Muehle on his last furlough. I'd never met Auntie Maria before.
Once we got to their home she gave me the once over! "Theress, that boy needs some feeding, he's as scrawny as a scarecrow!" Well, Auntie Maria went to work over the next two weeks. She fed me all sorts of horrible foods - well, not quite horrible, but food I wasn't accustomed to. Like Bread so white it looked like snow - and it had no substance in it. The bread I was used to was heavy, gluggy rye bread. Chocolate and cookies that tasted yuk - anyway very sweet. Strange fruits and drinks - like something called Coca Cola - a most amazingly disgusting drink!
 | |
| Uncle Aluis in Macedonia - 3rd from left |
After two weeks in Locham we started on our journey back to Berlin. Of course we had to stop in Augsburg, where mum's big brother, Uncle Aluis, lived. He was then a sergeant in the local police force. From stories I'd heard about him he was the most fascinating person I'd ever wanted to meet. Uncle Aluis was one of those unfortunate people that had to 'participate', entirely voluntary of course, in both world wars.
Uncle Aluis was a big man, about six foot two in English money and 185 cm in European measurement, he must have been six axe handles across the shoulders and the most fortunate man I'd ever heard of.
In WW I he was deployed to Macedonia first and to the French battle lines fighting the English. Being a very clever country boy he soon figured out that 'if I got shot in the leg, or somewhere non-lethal, I'd be sent home for mending and recuperation. Maybe, with any sort of luck, I could see out the war in some nice German hospital'.
So, the silly bugger would leap up during battles, go on top of the trench and fire away at a rapid rate with his 'automatic' three shot rifle. Well, he was standing there till the dying days of the war. Unlucky bugger, he never got hit.
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| Uncle Aluis - after WW I playing the 'fiddle' | - first left in back row |
When WW II got really going he was politely asked, conscripted, once again to join the circus. Where was he sent? To the Western Front of course. So, he tried the same caper and again to no avail whatsoever. Had to see it through to the bitter end, eventually being captured in the dying days of the war.
Once more, he was lucky though. He got captured by the Americans, who carted him off to a POW camp in England. The Yanks were in control of Bavaria then and needed personnel in their area. They checked out his credentials and 'misdemeanours', couldn't find anything untoward and promptly shipped him off to Augsburg to re-join the local police force to maintain law and order.
Whilst visiting Uncle Aluis he showed me his hand gun - a fascinating piece of machinery for a ten year old. He let me handle it and play with it. I scared the living daylights out of mum one afternoon when I came into the living room with this big pistol, hardly being able to hold it steady, and announcing "I have a gun". I'd never seen mum so scared and drained! But Uncle Alois had made sure there were no bullets in the chamber or the magazine.
The journey back to Berlin and on to Neue Muehle was rather uneventful. I was stuffed to the gills and in serious need of some R&R to recover from the ministrations of the relatives.
Pretty soon life returned to normal - no special treats, school every day, getting wood for the fire as winter approached and lugging coal upstairs to keep the fire burning overnight.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Apprentice Traveller
Enough of the gloom and doom of war days and the early occupation period. Let us get onto how I became a traveller.
This tale precedes and follows my previous post 'When Camping - don't forget the Utensils'. Having mastered, more or less, the riddle of water transportation I had to progress to mastering land transportation. Given I had an excellent teacher - my sister - and between the two of us we had just one stirling steel horse: a one gear, no suspension, no frills, all purpose road & mountain bike. It was not long before I became very proficient in pedalling selfsame contraption. Couldn't reach the saddle yet, but there were good prospect for me growing into the role.
It was during the summer school holidays, always a restless period where we dreamt up untold adventures, the three musketeers decided to embark on a road trip. Beats me why our parents let us go, nobody would do that nowadays. But then, times were different then. We gathered some clothing, a blanket each, a couple of sandwiches and whatever pocket money we had, really only a few cents, we set off into the wild blue yonder.
Not a care in the world and full of optimism. We headed east-south-east from our nearest town, Koenigs Wusterhausen. We pedalled all day thinking we would reach Poland or Czechoslovakia soon, but in reality we cover only about fifty-odd kilometres, ending up in the town of Luebben by early evening. By then we had consumed all our 'provisions' we'd brought along and were looking for FOOD and some accommodation for the night, well some sort of bed to sleep in.
I guess we were very lucky indeed, the Kasernierte Volkspolizei (paramilitary police force since neither East nor West Germany were allowed to have an army at that stage) were in town for some sort of exercise.
Having been told to always ask a policeman if you are in trouble, we approached them for advice.
The soldiers, sorry policemen, looked rather bewildered at our motley outfit. A junior officer strode up, having noticed the 'commotion'. As Germans are, he barked: "Was ist los?" (What's up).
The soldiers explained and he took charge. "OK boys, first thing you need is a good feed" - one prime requirement for a German to keep going is food - good food and plenty of it!
So, first call was to the 'Gulaschkanone' - a peculiar German word for a field kitchen. All it is is a large kettle mounted on a trailer with, then, a wood fire underneath. Gourmet cooking at its best! Low and behold, soldiers are fed properly. They'd cooked up a stew of gigantic proportion and it contained plenty of MEAT.
The officer shoved everybody out of the way, got us to the front of the queue - then had conniptions because we didn't have the required utensils, i.e. spoon, fork and container to have the food in. He barked an order to a sergeant to obtain three sets of implements - on the double. We were fed till we burst - boys will be boys and eat till there is no more room.
Then we were shown to a tent, rather large accommodating about twenty people or so, and told you will sleep in these three 'beds'. The army supplied us with pillows and blankets and Mr Officer said: "bedtime for you boys". No sooner our heads hit the pillow, we were out like lights.
Next morning we were fed again: boiled eggs, rye bread, cold cuts and - low and behold - cheese! Never had the stuff - it tasted awful! But, it was food, so down it went.
Mr Officer decided we were too young for coffee, so water was the drink of choice. After we were fed and watered we got a huge lecture from Mr Officer. We were told to get on our bikes and head straight back home - no mucking about, no detours, no sightseeing. Go home to your parents and STAY home! You are far to young to engage in such foolish behaviour.
Well, talk about three boys limping home with their tails between their legs. And weren't our parents ever so glad to have us home after just one night away - mean parents!
This tale precedes and follows my previous post 'When Camping - don't forget the Utensils'. Having mastered, more or less, the riddle of water transportation I had to progress to mastering land transportation. Given I had an excellent teacher - my sister - and between the two of us we had just one stirling steel horse: a one gear, no suspension, no frills, all purpose road & mountain bike. It was not long before I became very proficient in pedalling selfsame contraption. Couldn't reach the saddle yet, but there were good prospect for me growing into the role.
 |
| The steely speed-monster and I |
It was during the summer school holidays, always a restless period where we dreamt up untold adventures, the three musketeers decided to embark on a road trip. Beats me why our parents let us go, nobody would do that nowadays. But then, times were different then. We gathered some clothing, a blanket each, a couple of sandwiches and whatever pocket money we had, really only a few cents, we set off into the wild blue yonder.
Not a care in the world and full of optimism. We headed east-south-east from our nearest town, Koenigs Wusterhausen. We pedalled all day thinking we would reach Poland or Czechoslovakia soon, but in reality we cover only about fifty-odd kilometres, ending up in the town of Luebben by early evening. By then we had consumed all our 'provisions' we'd brought along and were looking for FOOD and some accommodation for the night, well some sort of bed to sleep in.
I guess we were very lucky indeed, the Kasernierte Volkspolizei (paramilitary police force since neither East nor West Germany were allowed to have an army at that stage) were in town for some sort of exercise.
Having been told to always ask a policeman if you are in trouble, we approached them for advice.
The soldiers, sorry policemen, looked rather bewildered at our motley outfit. A junior officer strode up, having noticed the 'commotion'. As Germans are, he barked: "Was ist los?" (What's up).
The soldiers explained and he took charge. "OK boys, first thing you need is a good feed" - one prime requirement for a German to keep going is food - good food and plenty of it!
 |
| Gulaschkanone - still in use today |
The officer shoved everybody out of the way, got us to the front of the queue - then had conniptions because we didn't have the required utensils, i.e. spoon, fork and container to have the food in. He barked an order to a sergeant to obtain three sets of implements - on the double. We were fed till we burst - boys will be boys and eat till there is no more room.
Then we were shown to a tent, rather large accommodating about twenty people or so, and told you will sleep in these three 'beds'. The army supplied us with pillows and blankets and Mr Officer said: "bedtime for you boys". No sooner our heads hit the pillow, we were out like lights.
Next morning we were fed again: boiled eggs, rye bread, cold cuts and - low and behold - cheese! Never had the stuff - it tasted awful! But, it was food, so down it went.
Mr Officer decided we were too young for coffee, so water was the drink of choice. After we were fed and watered we got a huge lecture from Mr Officer. We were told to get on our bikes and head straight back home - no mucking about, no detours, no sightseeing. Go home to your parents and STAY home! You are far to young to engage in such foolish behaviour.
Well, talk about three boys limping home with their tails between their legs. And weren't our parents ever so glad to have us home after just one night away - mean parents!
Sunday, 9 September 2012
The Mad Professor - too much IQ can be dangerous
Warning - this post contains no photos due to the circumstances at the time and the sensitivity of the subjects work.
In previous posts I have touched on the Mad Professor, whom we ended up living with during the final stages of WW II, mainly brought about by my insistence to arrive in this world during a bombing raid.
Professor Lyons was, by all accounts, an eminent physicist that worked at the Auergesellschaft in Oranienburg, an outer northern suburb of Berlin. He was engaged in research on something that could provide a lot of power (electricity) without the need to import shiploads of coal or oil.
Later on that research was directed more towards producing something that could deliver the 'Big Bang' and save the 'Moustached' ones arse from loosing the war.
Dad met the Professor in the mid 1930's in the Kneipe (local pub) they both frequented. Apparently they hit it off spiffingly and had many a late night discussion about the current incumbent 'Fuehrer', world politics in general and nuclear science specifically. Not a bad feat for either gentleman - Dad hadn't completed high school and the Prof knew about as much about politics as could be written on the back of a postage stamp. But a great time they had, trying their darnedest to expand the others knowledge of the subject/s they knew little or nothing about.
In about 1938 the Prof said to my dad: "Herbert, there is war on the horizon, it would be most prudent to get out of Berlin". Dad snorted at the thought, being Berlin bred and raised, and put it all down to another fairy fancy of the Prof. Anyhow, Prof took his own advice and purchased a property in Neue Muehle, about 30 km south-east of Berlin. Even with him living there they still managed to have their bi-weekly get together, either in the Kneipe or at our flat - much to the consternation of my mum since these sessions tended to go on well into the night. The Prof would manage, on most occasions, to just catch the last suburban train to Koenigs Wusterhausen and then face a 3 km walk to reach his home. From all accounts, the guys seemed to manage on very little sleep when bigger issues were involved.
Thus, come 1943 and my arrival in this world. Prof had urged my dad to move in with him ever since the war started. Once I turned up on this planet dad was out of Berlin like shot. The Prof was delighted - he was not very good at housekeeping and relished in the fact that mum would keep the house clean, cook his meals when he remembered to turn up, do his washing and ironing and dad keeping the garden in some sort of shape with the help of the Russian POW's.
When the war finally ended disaster loomed. The Prof had, for obvious reasons, lost his employment and was at a loss as to what to do. With summer coming up he hit on a rather novel way to keep himself occupied and entertained. In the late afternoon / early evening he would, several times a week, take to the street reciting formulaes and chanting about the end of the universe. No great harm in that - except he would do it stark naked, which frightened the living daylights out of the handsome maidens in the village and gave the more mature women naughty nightmares.
Eventually, about mid-July, he cranked that caper up a notch or two. He would march up and down the main drag, still naked, but armed with a rather larger kitchen knife that he wielded from side to side. He threatened anybody that thought of coming near him to carve them up into tiny Atoms!
That was taking things a weenie bit too far. Somebody informed the authorities and rather soon the men in the white overcoats arrived, defied his knife-wielding and carted him off to - where?
We were told he'd been taken to a secure mental institution (if there was such a thing in them days) but some people in the village, who had rather good connections to the powers that be, hinted that he had been taken on a holiday to Russia, since he had a lot of very valuable information stored in his memory.
Nothing was ever heard of the Professor again and nobody asked too many questions - not a healthy environment to do so if you wanted to survive.
In previous posts I have touched on the Mad Professor, whom we ended up living with during the final stages of WW II, mainly brought about by my insistence to arrive in this world during a bombing raid.
Professor Lyons was, by all accounts, an eminent physicist that worked at the Auergesellschaft in Oranienburg, an outer northern suburb of Berlin. He was engaged in research on something that could provide a lot of power (electricity) without the need to import shiploads of coal or oil.
Later on that research was directed more towards producing something that could deliver the 'Big Bang' and save the 'Moustached' ones arse from loosing the war.
Dad met the Professor in the mid 1930's in the Kneipe (local pub) they both frequented. Apparently they hit it off spiffingly and had many a late night discussion about the current incumbent 'Fuehrer', world politics in general and nuclear science specifically. Not a bad feat for either gentleman - Dad hadn't completed high school and the Prof knew about as much about politics as could be written on the back of a postage stamp. But a great time they had, trying their darnedest to expand the others knowledge of the subject/s they knew little or nothing about.
In about 1938 the Prof said to my dad: "Herbert, there is war on the horizon, it would be most prudent to get out of Berlin". Dad snorted at the thought, being Berlin bred and raised, and put it all down to another fairy fancy of the Prof. Anyhow, Prof took his own advice and purchased a property in Neue Muehle, about 30 km south-east of Berlin. Even with him living there they still managed to have their bi-weekly get together, either in the Kneipe or at our flat - much to the consternation of my mum since these sessions tended to go on well into the night. The Prof would manage, on most occasions, to just catch the last suburban train to Koenigs Wusterhausen and then face a 3 km walk to reach his home. From all accounts, the guys seemed to manage on very little sleep when bigger issues were involved.
Thus, come 1943 and my arrival in this world. Prof had urged my dad to move in with him ever since the war started. Once I turned up on this planet dad was out of Berlin like shot. The Prof was delighted - he was not very good at housekeeping and relished in the fact that mum would keep the house clean, cook his meals when he remembered to turn up, do his washing and ironing and dad keeping the garden in some sort of shape with the help of the Russian POW's.
When the war finally ended disaster loomed. The Prof had, for obvious reasons, lost his employment and was at a loss as to what to do. With summer coming up he hit on a rather novel way to keep himself occupied and entertained. In the late afternoon / early evening he would, several times a week, take to the street reciting formulaes and chanting about the end of the universe. No great harm in that - except he would do it stark naked, which frightened the living daylights out of the handsome maidens in the village and gave the more mature women naughty nightmares.
Eventually, about mid-July, he cranked that caper up a notch or two. He would march up and down the main drag, still naked, but armed with a rather larger kitchen knife that he wielded from side to side. He threatened anybody that thought of coming near him to carve them up into tiny Atoms!
That was taking things a weenie bit too far. Somebody informed the authorities and rather soon the men in the white overcoats arrived, defied his knife-wielding and carted him off to - where?
We were told he'd been taken to a secure mental institution (if there was such a thing in them days) but some people in the village, who had rather good connections to the powers that be, hinted that he had been taken on a holiday to Russia, since he had a lot of very valuable information stored in his memory.
Nothing was ever heard of the Professor again and nobody asked too many questions - not a healthy environment to do so if you wanted to survive.
Sunday, 2 September 2012
A Father's Day Tale
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| Dad, Mum & my future Tormentor 1941 |
By all accounts he was a rather serious man, his head buried in books when he wasn't politically active.
Upon his return from seducing the young maiden in Wemding (please refer to this blog: http://popomike.blogspot.com.au/2012/08/how-herbert-met-theresia.html), he joined the socialist party (SPD), which he belonged to till his death.
Fast forward to 1943 and my arrival in this world. Want to know more about that follow this link: http://popomike.blogspot.com.au/2012/08/believe-it-or-not-i-was-born.html
Dad working at the rail car manufacturing place, commonly known as Schwarzkopf, experienced a rapid drain of able-bodied workers. He was in charge of the final assembly/quality assurance department. In those days, few lifting/labour assistance devices were in place - no OH&S in them days. Assembling rail cars is not really for the weak or faint-hearted and definitely not women's work. The solution - use Russian prisoners of war to do the heavy work.
Small problem though - the poor buggers were malnourished and emanciated. They would be trucked in by 6:30 AM to start work. They got a 'Lunch'-break at noon with, low and behold, "food" supplied! The food was usually a watery soup, if you could call it that, with a few cabbage leaves floating in it plus one slice of stale German rye bread. The poor buggers would be picked up at 5:30 PM for transfer back to their camp.
That was Monday to Friday, on Saturdays they would finish at noon, thus avoiding the need to feed them.
My Dad being a socialist, and basically extremely kind hearted, used his position to 'force' some of these buggers to work even harder.
The 'Mad Scientist's' property being rather large for Berlin standards (approximately half an acre), and Mr Egghead not inclined to look at the garden, let alone tend to it, it had gone rather feral over the years. So Dad figured he could get some of these guys to come for the weekend and put some muscle into cleaning it up. He got the appropriate permits and had to sign guarantees to return them safe, sound and unharmed.
He would take four or five prisoners home Saturday lunchtime and bring all of them back with him Monday morning - not even half a POW missing! Believe it or not, that operation was carried out on the local commuter train! No security transport, no guns, no guards!
They were told, the first few times till word got around, that they must be seen in the garden all Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday, come rain, hail or shine.
Not a problem, they were happy to do it and even worked their butts off. It was all a ruse - they got fed lunch and dinner on the Saturday, three square meals on Sunday and a decent early breakfast on the Monday.
It wasn't long before dad was inundated with requests to join the 'extracurricular workdetail' - word had gotten around the POW camp of what was going on. Naturally, everybody wanted a good feed and a comfortable sleep in a decent bed.
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| My Dad and I |
Well, the war finally ended and the Russians were occupying the Eastern part of Germany. They got to work to organise some sort of local government to restore some order and civility in the area. By September 1945 they had managed to organise local councils and arranged for elections to be held for the various offices. One small hitch - only socialist and communist party members were eligible to be put on the voting list. Dad was running for the position of Mayor of Koenigs Wusterhausen, the nearest sizable town which incorporated Neue Muehle. His opponent was a rather 'shonky', and despised, communist. They did not have opinion polls in them days, BUT there were straw polls, i.e. asking around who was likely to win. Apparently, dad was about a country mile in front, which did not impress his opponent. What to do, the communist thought.
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| Swish Russian ZIL - cops lead a good life |
Problem solved! A couple of weeks later a rather large car, as seen here, pulled up in front of our new abode (we had departed the mad scientist's premises by then) four officers emerged, marched down our pathway and arrested dad. The picture of the four guys coming down the pathway and then marching away with Dad, is indelibly imprinted in my mind. In fact, it is the only mental picture I have of dad.
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| Watchtower at Buchenwald |
Dad was there till autumn 1947 when he contracted double-sided pneumonia and, there being no medications available in the camp, dying a months later despite four doctors (also interned on trumped up charges) being with him at the time.
On that note: Happy Father's Day Dad - you'll always be with me.
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