Not on the Mayflower: Dietrich W. Botstiber's Journey from Anschluss Vienna to Philadelphia, 1938

Abstract

Often your sleep is restless, filled with nightmares. But the morning comes, light brings back the familiar world, and you experience that gentle elation that comes from relief. It was a dream, it is over, the fear, the concern, the desperation, these were only dreams.

That night my nightmares were grim, and the early spring sunshine in the morning brought no real relief. It was not a dream; they are here, the world is theirs. And I must go into it. Will they stop me on my way to work? Will they permit me to enter the building, start my usual work? Am I on a list of undesirables, enemies of the Reich? Get up, act casual, and don't appear concerned. Hurry, get the earlier streetcar, don't run into that hateful character; he holds the advantage now.

The swastikas are bigger now and there are more of them. As I approach the factory, I am confronted by the man with a predator's face. Hattie is his name and he has a red armband with a big swastika. Official and aggressive. I nod casually; he says “Heil Hitler,” and lets me pass. On the stairs, nobody stops me. My desk stands there as usual. I get my work together. With some satisfaction, I note that the engineers are all here and going about their work. The radicals are mostly from the clerical and “merchant” [sales] groups. The moods of people around me are variable. Some are grinning and elated; some unchanged but with a nuance of resignation; some seemingly more busy than ever, bent over their work as if trying to hide their faces. How must I appear to the others?

The telephones start ringing again. It almost develops into a normal working day. I catch the name Rosenberg in one of the conversations. Rosenberg is manager of a farm operation some distance away, a good, hard working customer. I met him once, when we installed some motor drives. What will happen to him?

A man comes in, grinning all over his broad face, shakes hands with the fellow three desks from mine. Congratulations. One schilling changes hands. Somebody won a bet.

Airplane noises come through the window. I get up and look. A long row of aircraft flies slowly in a southeast direction. Even at this distance, I can see the planes are quite large. I have never before seen so many in one formation. I hear my name; somebody talks, laughing, about me wishing to have an airplane. He is right. Back to my desk.

Time drags. I concentrate on work. Suddenly, somebody comes into the room and calls out: “Everybody go home at twelve. Go home and celebrate!”

Oh, how eager I am to celebrate! Leave at twelve! The streetcar is, oh, so slow. At the changeover stops, I run after the next train and jump up when it has already started to move. The conductor gives me a dirty look. But I must get home to celebrate my way!

My passport and that all-important affidavit are in that top drawer, where I put them last December. Now is the time to reach for it, that life-saving treasure that I have preserved for just this moment. I almost feel like kissing it, but folding it and holding it in my breast pocket, near my pounding heart will be reverence enough. Out the door to the garden gate and on my long journey to the American consulate. Was it a friendly wave of the hand of Providence that made the company give us the afternoon off? Will I have to abandon my work on my doctorate? Who cares! All I want now is to go away and this time I know it will be America!

As I walk away from my house I feel some kind of discomfort in my right ankle. As I move a few steps further, I feel a sharp pain in the lower area of the ankle, close to the heel. Walk on, it won't be serious, soon I will be at the streetcar, where I can sit down and let the pain subside. But the pain gets worse; every time I put my right foot down, I feel like screaming. I must make it to the streetcar and I will.

Yes, I make it to the streetcar stop near the depot. The street is so quiet, what is going on? There, in the distance, a train, but going in the wrong direction. But he does not even stop at the station; he pulls right into the depot. Fate, Providence, God—what are you doing to me? All streetcar traffic has stopped. But, painful as it will be, I will walk to the taxi stand, about one quarter mile down the street. I have enough money with me and the driver will be glad to get the long fare to the other side of the inner city, where the consulate is located.

I walk, dragging my right foot. It feels hot and irritated now. But I must make it to the taxi stand. Then it will be only a half hour's ride. Don't think of that aching foot. Think of the flat-shoed woman at the consulate. What will she say when I arrive with that affidavit? Something like: “Well, you made it after all!” Or: “Finally, now we can go ahead.”

From the distance, the taxi stand looks empty. But that cannot be; whenever I passed it before, there were always at least two cabs there; often enough quite a line of them. They have to wait quite long for a fare. And are always eager to get one.

It's true. The taxi stand is empty. No vehicle of any kind anywhere in sight. And hardly any people.

No, I cannot make it on foot, the whole long way. Is Heaven, or God, or Providence, or whoever brought on this whole situation, trying to tell me something? Like: Give up, stay here, and accept the swastika and what it stands for. America is not for you. If we let the Fuhrer get this far, we must have had a reason!

I force myself to go the cobblestone sidewalk, the way I used to walk to school, long ago. I expect that surge of pain every time my right foot hits the ground. I cringe and emit a low groan. So what, nobody is here to hear me. Never before have I seen the street so empty in the bright daylight.

I pass the school where I have spent eight miserable years and then come close to the building in which I attended those evening classes. That was better. I felt challenged, interested. But I have far to go yet. How many steps are there in a city block? Counting the steps distracts me from the pain.

So close to city center already and no sign of activity. Doors are closed. Shop windows are shuttered.

Suddenly, a horn sounding loud in the distance. Coming closer fast. A car flashes by, two S lines, shaped rather like lighting symbols, crudely painted on the side. It disappears in the distance, going towards the city. The pitch of the sound changes as it swishes by. The Doppler effect on sound waves.

Now as I approach the Ring boulevard, I see people, many in S.A. uniforms. They are forming rows of four. Here and there are some with more elaborate insignia, directing. I must get through. Setting my face in a purposeful expression as if I were part of the developing parade, I squeeze through into the inner city and keep to the smaller streets, where I am less likely to be stopped and questioned.

My walk has become an organized limp. I tend to drag the right heel. Must look strange. The pain is now in an accepted rhythm. Time becomes a concern, too. How long will the consulate be open on a day like this?

Across and through the inner city to the Ring boulevard at the opposite side. I must cross through to get to the district where the consulate is located. The parade here has started to take shape and rows of onlookers have formed long lines. I must break through. Again, don't hesitate, don't show fear, look official. A short “Pardon me,” and I wiggle through the tight rank, rush through a gap of the marchers. Into the long, tight line of the other side; straight, determined look forward and I squeeze in and through. Behind me I hear something like “Who is he?” and a questioning “Maybe a Jew?” But I am past and on my way.

I finally arrive at the consulate. Open? Yes, I can go in. At the counter stands Mrs. Flatshoe herself. My right ankle accepts the respite with warm relief.

She looks up, as I pull out my affidavit with that deep feeling of fulfillment that comes after a long wait, a great effort. I fold it open and place it before her, right side up, to get the full effect of recognition.

She looks at it, but not at me: “We can do nothing with that. We need proof of the data on that form. A certified copy of his income tax return. A notarized letter from his employer, confirming his salary. A statement from his bank, confirming his deposit value.”

My right ankle burns in pain.

[The date is apparently Saturday, March 12. 1938. Ed.]

Saturday, thank God, means working only half the day. I got up as usual and by the time I left the house, I remembered the pain in my right ankle, yesterday. No trace of it now. Everything is as before. Only one of the men on the streetcar wore a swastika. When I arrive at work I noticed that two desks were empty; the ones of the group of two that specialized on relay work. My contacts with them had been confined to occasions when I needed information on electric relays. But today I had a question about the operating range of the company's line of relays. I asked the fellow whose desk was next to my left why the relay people were not in today, both of them, rather unusual. He laughed broadly. “Don't tell me you didn't know that they were Jews.” I felt a little embarrassed. Of course I should have known all along, if I had given any thought to it. “Hartje stopped them at the door yesterday morning. And Neumeyer, too.” Neumeyer was a man in the administrative group who had solicited memberships in the “Patriotic Front,” the Austrian independence movement. I took notice and tried not to show any reaction.

Twice that morning came the sound of airplanes in the distance. I looked up, but did not walk to the window. The less noticed, the better. What if they found out about my connection with the Home Defense? I tried to remember if I had ever seen any records of names there. All I can remember is how I had to salute at the start of the one-two, one-two exercises, shouting “Present!” when “Hunter in the Home Militia,” followed by my name, was called out. Hunter was a title, or rank, derived from the old times, when the new recruits from the rural and mountain areas were expected to have some shooting skills. How silly to think of that now, things were now long past. Well, how long? Two weeks ago.

Airplanes in the distance again. The morning drags on. One o'clock. Leave for the weekend.

At the Institute, the door is locked. Silence.

When I got home I decided to call Dr. Groetzinger to find out how things would go in the days ahead. I had only one month's work left to completion and then I would get the final draft typed, and the final charts drawn and ready for submission. But more urgent matters intervened. I found [my sister] Eva, her husband Emerich, and Marie, the maid, in the library engaged in tense, hushed conversation. During the morning, Marie had answered the telephone. A male voice, hateful and threatening, had shouted insults against Father, had referred to him as “that Jew” and claimed that he was going to be arrested. Marie had then called Eva's home and they had come to talk to her. Marie was a nice, quiet country girl from the eastern farm area. She was intelligent, capable of being more than a housemaid. It was her first job. She had been wise enough not to mention the subject of the call over the telephone, but just asked them to come, stressing the urgency. Now they were trying to identify the caller. There was no clue. We could make some vague suppositions; Father, with his choleric disposition, may often have affronted people. It could have been some disgruntled employee of the Konzerthaus, or a person connected with Reichwein, the one who had published that anti-Semitic article and with whom Father subsequently had a violent confrontation. It could be anyone who bore an old grudge. Times were too tense to accept risks. We decided to delay our parents' return from their trip by sending a telegram to the next stopping point of their Italian tour. We composed it to say that we were disturbed by their report about Father's health and strongly suggested that they interrupt their tour at the nearest city and remain there until his health had improved.

The next day, Sunday, I called Dr. Groetzinger and asked about the situation at the Institute. He knew only that two men with Nazi party emblems had arrived early the previous day, had demanded the keys from the building superintendent, had declared the Institute closed, that Professor Ehrenhaft was to be arrested, and all records of the Institute had been seized by order of party authorities. He asked that we get together to discuss the situation and we agreed to meet the next evening.

I tried to think of precautions needed at home. Father had often expressed sympathies for the “legitimist” cause, the movement that favored the return of the Habsburg monarchy. If any documents in this connection were found it would be his end. He also kept a loaded pistol in his night table, always locked and the only key was on his key ring. I searched all possible locations, hoping he might have left it before going on the tour, but without success. I decided to try picking the locks. His writing desk was a heavy, old piece of furniture with curved doors, one of which was always locked. It was the same type lock as on the other heavy wooden furniture in the house. The key had to have a round shaft, hollow at the end to receive the pin at the center of the lock, and a flag with a certain profile to clear the matching profile inside. I hammered and bent a piece of heavy steel wire, trying to visualize the way it would go past the center pin, into the pattern of tile profile and into the notch of the sliding bolt. After an hour's trial, error and effort, the lock snapped open. A lot of papers were on the shelves inside. Conspicuous at the top of the pile was a small card, with heavy black print on yellow paper, the membership card of the Legitimists Club, the group that favored the return of the Habsburg monarchy. That piece of paper, in the wrong hands, would be my father's death sentence. After hastily going through the other papers in the desk, I concluded that most were harmless or trivial. Some referred to the time when my grandparents had lived in America, others concerned property disputes. Other letters were in English, from people with the name of Bernays, evidently from New York, cordial in nature, with a note of thanks for things not mentioned in detail. One letter, still in its original envelope, came from a person named Harry Krugman and was addressed to my father's parents. It was clearly a letter of appreciation for favors he had received. And there were documents for the mortgage on the house. I noticed, with some surprise, that Mother's name alone appeared as property owner. I decided to destroy everything, except the mortgage papers. It was a lengthy task, the letters and envelopes I tore into small pieces and flushed them, in small batches, down the toilet. The Legitimists Club card I burned, because the paper was too stiff and could possibly clog the drain. With that, I felt that I had committed enough acts of subversion for the day. Father might resent my destruction of his papers, but I was ready to accept any possible reproach in the interest of safety, considering the circumstances.

The doorbell rang. Two men were at the garden gate. One wore a red swastika armband. I had thought that today's troubles were over—but they were only beginning. I pressed the button of the electric gate opener and received them at the door of the house. To my relief, their manner was friendly. The man with the armband was, evidently, in charge, the other one was somewhat subservient and did not say a word. The “Heil Hitler” greeting was followed by a short introduction, making it unnecessary for me to respond. He said they were here for the car we had, so commendably, agreed to loan to the officials for use during the transition period. He introduced the other man as an experienced driver and made him present his license. Then he produced a paper that was, so he explained, the receipt, which he completed after asking for the make of the car and license number. He added that our cooperation was appreciated. Then he asked me why I did not wear a swastika. For an instant, I searched for a suitable answer. Wearing the emblem of Nazism was more than a confession of ideology; it was protection against harassment, attack, and possible arrest with all its fatal consequences. But in critical cases, being caught with a swastika on the lapel when accused of being racially or politically objectionable could aggravate the situation even further. I had rejected the idea of hiding behind that symbol.

“I haven't been able to compile all the documents for Aryan descent,” I told him.

“You are unquestionably Aryan,” he replied. “Yes, do wear the emblem,” he added.

They went off with our family car, leaving me stunned. It was clear that somebody who knew my father and our family was bent on making trouble for us. My suspicions centered mostly on two individuals at the Konzerthaus: one was in an advanced position and had probably aspired to become my father's successor, the other one was a low echelon office assistant whose character had always been suspicious to me. But he had been decidedly socialist in his views, so it was unlikely that he could agree with the Nazi movement now. Still, somebody, driven by hate and envy, meant to do us real harm.

What else was in the house that could possibly lead to trouble? That revolver in Father's nightstand had to go; it could be a subject of accusations if a search was conducted. My experience in lock-picking earlier that day proved useful. It took half the time. I wondered what would have happened if an experienced burglar had ever been in the house. The gun was an automatic pistol with a magazine of six cartridges. I wrapped it in an oil soaked rag and buried it in a flowerbed behind the house. Enough subversive activities for one day.

I met with Dr. Groetzinger that evening. The Institute would remain closed; there was no information about its future. Professor Ehrenhaft had been arrested, but was released after a day. His position with the University was declared void. Groetzinger had no news about his own situation, but he expected to be terminated as well. He would write to some American universities. A few of his publications had resulted in contacts that could lead to invitations from them; requests for immigration visas from universities got preferential treatment. As to my dissertation, I might as well forget all about it.

Next day at work, the old routine. Some talk about a referendum to be held soon. For or against the Fuhrer. Of course, one would not need any secret ballot; everybody would openly vote “For,” and, of course, Jews or politically objectionable people would not be permitted to vote. The name Rosenberg came up again, referred to with ridicule and mock-Jewish-accented speech. What will happen to him? I listen and my insides start boiling. I can restrain myself no longer, but I manage to keep a quiet tone. “Rosenberg,” I say, “is a hard working, honest man. A benefit to the cause of developing the German economy. Something should be done to protect people like him.” There is silence, then some murmuring and the subject is changed.

I get a call from Herr Forster. The two Englishmen were trying to tell him something; I should come to interpret. Mr. Dennis was there, and Mr. Wadsworth with his wife. I had met her before during one of the earlier conferences. She was a typical English working-class woman, whose attitude indicated that, since she was away from England, she had to endure the presence of members of an uncivilized, uncultured, primitive, altogether non-British tribe. Mr. Dennis told me to inform Herr Forster that they were leaving the next day and wanted to leave some instructions for ways to send progress reports to them, via mail and telegrams. He wanted to have some time with me to work out a schedule, of reports. He asked me to tell Herr Forster that if he had some urgent work to attend to, he could leave this matter to my section. I translated and explained this and Herr Forster reacted with relief, pleased to leave this tiresome task to someone else.

After he had gone, Mr. Dennis told me that they had received a telegram from their London office, advising them to leave for security reasons. He asked me if it were possible for me to leave, too; international troubles were expected. Of course, it was not possible for me to leave the country; all borders were closed, not by the German authorities, but by the neighboring states, which did not want to be swamped by penniless refugees. I thought of my rejection at the American consulate, considered the possibility of applying for a visa to Australia from the British consul, and my family's situation with our parents still in Italy, and wondered what next steps I would have to take. My parents could not stay abroad much longer, they were running out of money and it was impossible to send money, nor anything of value, out of the country. Travelers would be searched for anything beyond personal effects. But, here were these English people, leaving tomorrow for England. I asked them if they would take some personal effects to England for me. With British passports, they were unlikely to encounter any serious difficulties at the border. All I asked them to take along was some of my mother's jewelry, which Mrs. Wadsworth could wear. In England they could then hand it over to our friends, the Browns. There was no reluctance at all; it even seemed to me that Mrs. Wadsworth relished her role. We agreed that I would meet them that night at their hotel. Then we prepared the schedule for the progress reports.

That night, I handed to Mr. Dennis the jewelry my mother had left at home. There were two diamond rings, two bracelets, a pin with diamonds and emeralds and a string of pearls. I gave them the name and address of Bunty, the younger one of the two daughters of the Brown family, and asked them to ask her to write me when she had received the jewelry. Of course, she must not mention jewelry in her letter, but just say that she had received the “message” from Mr. Dennis. He gave me his business card, CANADIAN and GENERAL FINANCE Ltd., also his home address and expressed his hope that he would soon meet me in England. I joined him in that wish, but with little hope.

The referendum was to take place next week. There was no registration, but two days before the date [April 10, 1938], I found, in the mailbox, papers indicating objections against us three. No name, nor reason, nor other information was given as to the source of the objection. The polling place was identified as the school where I had taken that examination for the elementary school years, twenty years ago. I tried to decide if it was better to let the matter go, rather than stirring up possible trouble. But, if records were kept and it would show up that our family had not voted, it might be troublesome, too. I decided to go and find out who had lodged that objection. [Well over 200,000 registered voters in Vienna alone had been declared ineligible to vote. Ed.]

In the entrance hall of the school building stood a table with a crude-looking man sitting on a chair behind it. Several similarly unappealing men were standing around, talking or doing nothing. I approached the man at the table and told him that I was here to inquire about an objection I had received. He looked straight through me and said: “It's too late to do anything about it now.” I protested. I had received the notice only the day before. Didn't he have any records of residents of the area? He did not answer any of my questions, but got up, walked to the side door, opened it, stuck his head out and shouted: “S.A.,” the colloquial abbreviation for Sturm Abteilung—Storm Troops. A storm trooper in uniform appeared and faced me head on. “Are you a Jew?” he shouted at me.

“No,” I said firmly.

“Where is your swastika?” He turned to the man who had called him. “What does he want?”

“He says somebody filed an objection against him.”

The storm trooper turned towards me again. “Were you a member of that Home Defense, or something like that?”

“No,” I said firmly.

For an instant he hesitated, then he growled: “Whoever objected to you must have had a reason. We have no time for such things now.”

“You should improve your system,” I said, trying to sound and look authoritative. With that I turned and left, feeling not authoritative at all. To my relief, I heard no steps following me.

At work the next day, we were called into the large machine hall that had been empty for years. A speaker's platform had been erected and a high-ranking official from the corporate center in Berlin gave a speech. He was a short, simply clad man, who talked in a calm, unemotional way. He addressed the whole crowd as members of the large, powerful, worldwide AEG concern and pointed out that the future was bright, hopeful, and prosperous. “Many of you may have someone in your family who is unemployed and has been unable to find work for a long time. This will change very soon. We will need every man. Unemployment will be a matter of the past. This place will be busy and every one of you will have a chance to earn a good living. The German Reich needs you all.” When he had finished, the German national anthem started somewhere in the crowd, arms flew up in the Hitler salute and soon the whole mass stood uniformly, singing Haydn's appropriated melody. Well, I thought, they have taken our country, so with it they also took its music. And the German text, after all, is not any more arrogant than the “Rule Britannia” of the English. Hopefully, they will sing only the first verse. So they did, and, with relief, I prepared to lower my right arm to a comfortable position. But I quickly thrust it up again, because hardly had the last tone of the anthem faded out, when the Horst Wessel song started: “Raise high the flag …”

Work for everyone, a promise almost too good to believe. To the laboring classes, it meant enough to eat, better housing, possibly even an apartment of two, maybe even three rooms, a chance to marry and live independently from parents. To some, it meant freedom from the ever-depressing thought of being a citizen of an impoverished, small, third-rate country. It might offer the prospect of better, more interesting, advanced employment. But didn't it also mean eventual military service, wearing a uniform, a thought made so abhorrent to the workers long under the influence of a socialist education? Facial expressions and occasionally overheard comments, as the crowd dispersed to the various departments revealed a mixed response by some to the speech by the man from Berlin. But in general he had made a favorable impression—and he had not relied on politics during his presentation of the bright picture ahead.

My evenings are free now. I can walk through the city and see how it has changed. Some kind of parade almost every evening. Clubs, associations, groups never heard of before, now stage marches along one or another major city street, carrying signs with slogans, sometimes just a sign with the name of a business firm, implying that the employees are out to say something. Sometimes swastikas on the signs, sometimes everything left to the observer. Posters, pictures of Hitler, slogans. In front of the Opera building, a big poster showing a repulsive caricature of a Jew, with a caption “Jewishness is Criminality.” Big posters of a letter of Cardinal Innitzer, head of the Austrian Catholic Church and representative of the Pope, endorsing the Nazi takeover and signed with “Heil Hitler.” So the church is also with the Nazis.

I have time to meet with my friends now. I begin to realize that many of them are Jewish. I want to be sure that they remain my friends, now that the racial gap has become so vital. I hear of cases where friendships faded out or even turned into hostility, or even exploitation by greedy opportunists, who used the helpless situation of Jewish friends, or business associates, for personal advantage. The always-exchanged questions: What are YOU going to do? Where? When? Any relatives abroad? And a little less open: Any foreign money? Any chance to send it out of the country? How? What is the risk? Have you been molested? What will happen next?

Some good news, at least. From England, Bunty writes that she has received that “message” from Mr. Dennis.

But from our parents' circle of friends and from the world of music and entertainment, sad news and some weird stories. Suicides, arrests, disappearances. What should we do about our parents? They are still in Italy. How much longer can they stay there? Could they get visas to England from there? Here, there's no chance to get even close to the British consulate. At the door of the American consulate, a waiting line three city blocks long. And if they could get a visa, how would they live? On what? Eva has lost her job at the government press office. Her boss, the chief of the press office, has been arrested and is in the concentration camp at Dachau, together with the entire cabinet of the Austrian government. Anyone who was in an advanced government position is gone, or in imminent danger. You don't hear from them anymore. Now it is good to be small, unimportant, unknown.

The referendum results are announced. Ninety-nine-and-three-quarter percent for the Fuhrer. Maybe I should be grateful to the one who filed that objection.

But there is some good news from the neighborhood. Our second-house-up-the-street neighbor, Dr. Wellesz, whose modern, atonal music we often discussed, has been visited by a delegation from the Oxford University and they have arranged for his immediate appointment to the University's faculty. The family will follow soon. In the meantime, his daughter, my childhood bride Liesi, introduces me to a young American visitor, Maurice Heckscher. His father, so I am told, is a very influential lawyer in New York. Nice fellow, talks extensively, hopes to see me in New York some day. I share his hope. But, in the meantime, he serves a useful function. He has a friend from England, who wants to rent a room here for the next three days. I am glad to rent him one of our extra bedrooms, and he agrees to deposit the rent for me in London. I give him the address of Bunty Brown, in Harrow Weald. She will hold the money for me. So, I now have a substantial sum in pound sterling waiting for me in London—if I ever get there.

A telegram from Father and Mother; they can't stay any longer. They are coming back. At work, the atmosphere has settled a little. There is talk about more projects to come, more people to be hired. Engineers, of course, to handle the technical workload, but also clerical and administrative personnel, because from now on there will be strict allocations of materials, graduated by the degree of importance of the work, according to guidelines that will come from the corporate headquarters in Berlin. The building will be expanded. More of the presently open space will be utilized. Political discussions are toning down; the loud, radical figures, who were mostly in the lower echelons of the organization, are less prominent again and slide back into the areas of their work. It seems like everybody has an unspoken, unwritten rating, from actively radical, to ideologically consenting, to moderate, to undecided, to questionable. Accordingly, one measures one's tone and words according to the type of person one is addressing. Or, maybe it just seems to me that way. What would be my rating, seen from other people's viewpoint? I can't be sure, but it seems significant that one of the two fellows who were ridiculing Rosenberg only some days ago, said yesterday in a clear tone, not directly towards me, but clearly intended for me to hear, that Rosenberg was going to Bulgaria. “They all, eventually, find a place to go to,” he added.

A new Chief for the engineering department has arrived from Berlin. There is a lot of talk about him; it all points to a real German boss, order, discipline, obedience, performance. Anything can be expected. So far, he is still unseen; he is observing, judging, inquiring, and planning. All our work goes to his office before final release. In the meantime, his spirit is ever present.

Some of the new people are quite pleasant. Young, cheerful faces. Occasional joking talk and laughter. Easy communication when working. Work flows with less tension than ever before. Of course, it always takes a few days until a newcomer is appropriately classified. One of the new engineers is one of my former colleagues. He was with me in the lectures and early examinations, but then took two and a half years longer to graduate. He is assigned, with another fellow, to take over the relay work that has been stopped since the two Jewish engineers were forced out. After a few days at his assignment, he is asked, informally, what progress he has made. His answer, freely and without any concern, is: “Well, so far, we have copied what the Jews have done.” His tone is relaxed and cheerful. I feel insecure about him.

But the telephone rings. Mr. de Weerth wants me to come to his office. He is the new Chief from Berlin. That is serious. A number of thoughts flash through my mind. Has he found out about my political opposition? Has anything been reported about me from an outside informer? Will I be questioned about political affiliations? About social contacts with Jews? There has been some talk about forming a Storm Troop of company employees. I know that my name has been mentioned in that connection. It takes only seconds to reach the door to Herr de Weerth's office, but dozens of such thoughts, questions, and fears are running through my head before I knock. “Come in,” sounds the deep voice and I stand before Herr Ingenieur de Weerth, Chief of Engineering, AEG Vienna, my superior. He is a white haired figure of firm authority. His complexion is nearly white, but there are little groups of thin, red veins, emphasizing the contrast. “Sit down,” he says, and I sink into the chair before his desk, now facing him squarely. “What does he think of me?” my mind asks, but the question is not directed at anyone, real or imaginary. “Before we talk, take a look at this,” he says, and hands me a plain, white envelope that shows nothing but my last name, preceded, of course, by the traditional address “Herr.”

“Too much formality,” I think, “for the grim message you have in mind for me.” My face is rigid. I open the envelope and read a letter, addressed to me, with name, department, job title: “This is to inform you that we have increased your salary to RM 380.00, retroactive to March 11, 1938.”

It was more than a fifty percent increase. The German Reichsmark had been introduced shortly after the take-over, but the Austrian schilling was still valid and in circulation, with an exchange ratio of 1.50 schilling for one mark. As I expressed my gratitude, my voice was clearly expressing my surprise. Herr de Weerth had some favorable things to say about my work, some encouraging remarks about future prospects—and a small admonishment: “The way you end your correspondence, with sentences like ‘We appreciate your interest in our services and request your favorable consideration,’ that will no longer be the way to communicate; you have to realize that people are fortunate to be accepted as customers of AEG, we are doing them a great service and not just everybody will have access to it. So, use appropriate language.” Yes, I would do that appropriately.

Mr. Dennis and Mr. Wadsworth were back. They had initially been recalled because their managers in London had feared violent developments in Europe, with Hitler talking about expansion into Czechoslovakia. But things had quieted down and delivery of transformers was again priority. I had to spend time interpreting for the transformer department, had to listen to polite, but firm admonition by the group head, another new arrival from Berlin, about spending too much time away from the project department.

Father and Mother were back now. Tense, fearful atmosphere. Eva visited frequently with her husband. He was in government service, in the legal division, and his position was not affected by the political change. He had volunteered to look into those threatening phone calls and the requisitioning of the car, but ultimately was unable to find out anything. Father approved of my disposal of the documents in his desk and of his revolver. Yes, he agreed, either one might have been dangerous in case of a search. He was encouraged about my job at AEG and made some hopeful comments about future developments, but I disagreed and emphasized my intention to continue my efforts to emigrate. He accepted this, and from that point on, acted like he had always been in favor of that course. I thought of the past years, of the contacts he might have made, but had always declined. I asked Mother to write her friend, Annie Schreiber, to prevail on Mr. Schreiber to send me some substantiating documents for the affidavit he had sent me the last year. Even if they came, I had no idea how I could get them to the consulate, which now admitted only applications by personal appearance, in order of where one stood in the endless line of applicants. I had heard that they stood in line for three days, day and night. Some fainted; others had strokes and heart attacks. To apply for Australia, which I intended to do as soon as I could take the time off, one had to go to the British consulate. There, I had heard, one had to find a way to see a certain Captain Kendrick, who handled all visa matters. Maybe, by some miracle, one could manage to get through to him.

In the meantime, news comes from local people. Among my parents' close friends, two suicides, both by jumping from sixth floor windows. One was the wife of a German businessman; she was pure Aryan, he was of Jewish ancestry. The other was a well-known music impresario, a genius of performance in almost every field, accomplished violinist, actor, and magician. Mrs. Zehsen, who had not heard from her husband since his disappearance, had received a note from the Dachau concentration camp, permitting her to pick up her husband's dead body.

The car was returned one day, unexpectedly, with one fender smashed and crumpled. The driver had explained to the maid that it wasn't his fault—the other driver was to blame. That settled it, as far as he was concerned.

There was hardly any use for it now, anyway. I took the streetcar into the city after work, preferring to come home late. The atmosphere there was depressing. In the evening, after supper, my father expected me to play a card game called Rummy with him, which was quite boring. I dreaded these evenings. Formerly, he never had had time for me or my views and interests. Now that he was retired and had not found anything to occupy his mind, he looked to me as his source of news and diversion. Now I was his type of a son, employed, working, steady. I was bursting inside.

It is spring now and I like to walk through the city in the late afternoon. The parks are beautiful and well tended as ever. The ducks in the ponds are not affected by the political change. I have trained myself to ignore the political posters, like the one in front of the Opera, signs in some store windows: “Aryan, German business firm,” flags with swastikas, occasional small parades. I have been warned of possible clashes with provocateurs, storm troopers in their brown uniforms, walking with firm, aggressive steps, as if inviting trouble. They have all the rights, all the power, and they seem to be eager to prove it. I know of people who were accosted, were accused of being Jewish or of having past memberships in socialist groups or in the Home Defense. They were beaten, sustained serious injuries, or were arrested and never seen again. Often, on crowded sidewalks, I encountered such characters, two, three abreast, swastikas glittering, but I show no deference or fear. “Caution,” says my reason; “Nonsense,” says my spirit. I know I am foolish, but I walk right on and pass between them. So far, it has always worked.

Two of the stores in central city still owe me some money from months ago, but their owners are Jewish. They have other worries now. In fact, so have I.

On the main shopping street, I meet Countess Hartenau-Battenberg. I am glad to see her; she always was very pleasant towards me. We walk together for a while. What are her plans? What are mine? She will stay and wait through the nightmare; it cannot go on very long. I will try to go somewhere. America seems to be an impossible goal, but maybe I can get to Australia. And my father should try to go to England. Does she, possibly, know someone at the British consulate? Yes, she is well acquainted with Captain Kendrick. Kendrick! Of all things, miracles happen sometimes, even now! She will arrange an appointment for both my father and me.

Pleasant excitement at home that evening. Maybe we all can go to England. Live there. Work there. Or Australia. Or some other British Commonwealth country. Half the world opens up.

Back to work next morning. It is springtime and the sun shines brightly. I catch a headline in the paper of the man opposite me: “British Official Expelled.” I buy a paper at the next stop. “Captain Kendrick, of the British legation, was apprehended while photographing the construction of the military complex at …” I don't need to read any further. That's the way miracles work for me.

Mr. Dennis, later, had a long, detailed explanation for me. It did not help.

Once again we were summoned to the big machine hall to listen to a speaker. This one was a crude-looking character who spoke with a Berlin accent, while emphasizing his presentations with facial distortions and swinging arms. “I was a coal miner,” he shouted “and I know what work is. We worked down in the dark, hot pit and when we came up at the end of the day, there were the French soldiers checking how much we had brought to the daylight. All the coal we dug was taken to France. ‘Reparations,’ they said. We worked and they got the results. But, that is no longer so and we have the Fuhrer to thank for it. German miners now work for Germany. And that's why I am here to talk to you. For you, too, are Germans, now. We are free now and we work for the German Reich. I have been a miner and I know what work is. We will build a new, strong Germany and if anyone wants to stop us, then we hit him in the kisser and make him shut up for good. We have the strength to do it. No longer are we ruled by the enemy in our midst—the Jew. In every Jew lives the will to world domination. Where is Persia? Where is the Roman Empire? Only the Jew lives on!” He went on raving for some time, while I was wondering what, if anything, he might have to say about Persia, the Roman Empire, or whatever else besides coal mining. Eventually, the end came with the anthem, followed by the Horst Wessel song. I found it repulsive in every way, but I moved my lips to make it look as if I were singing and held my right arm up, as the etiquette of the occasion required.

I had been with AEG for over six months and by Austrian labor law, which was still in effect and was, probably, not much different from German law, I was entitled to vacations. After six months of employment, everybody got two weeks vacation. But an academic title counted for five years of employment, so I was entitled to four weeks vacation. I was not prepared for any vacation trip. Moreover, foreign countries were closed to people like me because their governments feared that visitors would stay and become a burden on their stagnant economies. But against all the odds, I thought, something might arrive from the Schreibers. Then I would have to find a way to get into the American consulate, ahead of that long line outside.

One day, when I came back to my desk after a lunch hour walk, there was a small, beige card on it, together with a pin and a note, signed by someone I did not know. The card was titled “German Labor Front” and had my name neatly typed in, denoting that I was a member. The pin was in the form of a cogwheel with a swastika inside. The note asked for forty groschen, an insignificant amount. I showed it to one of my colleagues in whom I could confide and was told that everyone had received the same thing. I sent the forty groschen via inter-office mail and put the card and pin in my pocket. Some day, it might come handy. I had previously refused to buy a swastika pin, in spite of well-intended advice from friends, who thought of it as an emblem of security. But now I had no choice.

Another speaker to listen to. This one is young, dressed in S.A. uniform and more moderate in his tone and expression. He speaks about the economic programs going on in the new Reich. Achievements, obstacles, shortages. “They tried to cut us off from engine fuel for autos, trucks, panzers and airplanes.” I hear, for the first time, the word “panzer,” which evidently means armored vehicles, tanks. “But we have developed a system to make synthetic fuels, which work as effectively as any petroleum-based fuel.” Yes, I know, they make engine fuel from coal, by grinding it into a fine powder, mixing it with oil and exposing it to hydrogen under high pressure and temperature. How much can they produce that way? And at what cost?

But the crowd listens attentively. “They cut us off from the supply of natural rubber, but we developed synthetic rubber that is so superior that they now have to buy it from us.” Applause. He goes on praising Germany's inventive spirit, national genius, etc. Then, of course, comes the national anthem plus Horst Wessel song, arms raised. I catch myself mumbling my indecent parody of the words a little too loud. We start to leave. Madejski walks next to me. “Look at that fellow over there, to the right. Isn't he a Jew?” I see the man he means—a shop worker in overalls.

“So what?” I reply, “He is a working man doing his job. For our economy. Our common goal.” I try to sound convincing. Madejski does not look convinced. Just at that moment, the fellow turns his head in our direction, as if he had sensed that we were talking about him. He quickly turns away again. I feel deeply ashamed. If anything adverse should happen to that man, he will think of me.

On my walk through the city, that evening, I meet one of the two fellows who formed the relay unit at AEG. He still receives his salary from AEG, but is not permitted to enter the building. He hopes to go to Australia, eventually, and has filed his application at the British consulate some time ago. Has a name of a person there who seems to be cooperative. I may go to the British consulate and try.

At home the mood is grim. Father is in bed. Two men had appeared early that morning, demanded access to all files, records, papers. Searched his desk for documents, letters, money, but found only the mortgage on the house. Father was in shock and Mother took over. She heard one say to the other: “He has nothing, only debts.” Later, they talked quite civilly to her. “But in Jewish houses, you always find money.” I will go to the British consulate tomorrow.

The following day I took the afternoon off. By sheer luck, I got to talk to someone there who thought I was English, because I had addressed him in that language. I had heard him talk very rudely in broken German to two people ahead of me. The man whose name I had been given the day before was not there, but the man who thought I was English sent me to a person named Miss Wood, who turned out to be quite pretty, and, while maintaining an official tone, quite friendly. For Father, there was a chance to get a temporary visa for England, if he had a valid application pending for America. Could I get a visitor's visa for England for three days? If I had a valid visa for America, yes; otherwise, who knows? Thank you, Miss Wood. At least I know your name. When I left, she almost smiled—almost.

But now comes the beautiful month of May and every heart, so the classic poets have assured us, rejoices in happiness. The flowers, by the way, come too, and the birds sing their songs, etc. In fact, even I get pleasant news. Through a former dancing group colleague of Micki, I hear that she is living in Brazil happily, in wealth and splendor. Her husband's family is very rich and, in their district, influential. Several generations of German immigrants live in the area. She can't write to me, I am told, because her husband is very jealous. Of me?

But Mother has an encouraging letter from Annie Schreiber. Her husband will come to Vienna in July and will go to the consulate to provide support for my case and some others. First, he has to spend some time in his native Frankfurt, but in the meantime, she will come to Vienna.

AEG is now really very busy. The new building is fully under construction. The big machine hall gets several pieces of new equipment. Keep it up and the speaker's platform will have to go. More people are coming to our department. I have to arrange my work so that some of it can be done by the younger people who started only recently. One project is the power supply for a big steel mill that will be built in Linz, that city on the Danube, west of Vienna. It will be called the Hermann Goering Works.

I can take my vacation on separate days, pretty much as I want if it does not cause delays in the schedule for major projects. I begin to think of the other arrangements that will be necessary if the American visa is granted when Mr. Schreiber comes in July. How much time will it take to actually get the visa? Nobody knows. But an exit permit will be needed. And travel arrangements. The steamship companies are overloaded. Tickets are sold only if one can show an entry visa to the country of destination. And foreign currency. At the moment the steamship companies still accept local currency in payment for passage. If that changes, what then?

Luckily, my vacation gives me time to run errands. For an eventual exit permit, I need three documents, besides a valid passport: a statement that I do not owe any taxes; a statement that I do not owe any debts to any individuals or business firm; and a certificate stating that I have not been called for military service. Each one must be obtained from a different authority in a different location. That last one, for military service, is not required from Jews. But to get each document without complications, you have to bring your birth certificate and those of your parents and grandparents, to show that there is no record of Jewish birth. If so, then you have to go to the exit permit office for Jews, where the waiting lines are extremely long and the procedures intricate. Altogether, Austrian bureaucracy combined with new German regulations is too much for any living person. Maybe that's why so many people are staying here!

Austrian passports are still valid. Eventually, they will be replaced with new, German ones, but no deadline has been mentioned as yet. My Austrian passport carries a rubber stamp “Valid for all countries of the Earth.” I got it two years ago, when I considered taking that job in Iraq. At that time, the Austrian government even maintained a one-man office that gave advice to prospective emigrants.

Birth records here are kept by the church where one was baptized, the only place from which one can obtain valid copies of one's birth-and-baptism certificate. And for some of the papers you have to submit duplicates; for that you must make a typed copy and have it certified by the authority that issued the original document. More running, the paper-war is on. My birth-and-baptism certificate is easy to get; the big church of St. Charles, next to the Technical University, has my records. Also, my mother's and her parents' papers are readily obtained. I am able to locate my father's records, but not any of his parents' papers, except for that old American passport, issued for both of them. They were born in some place that is now in Czechoslovakia; it's hopeless to try. But with persistence, imagination, explanation and exception a lot can be replaced, even truth. The clerk in the district office, who issues the tax clearance, is very sympathetic and wishes me a good trip. The paper for personal debt clearance is a formality, but obtaining confirmation that you are not currently registered for military service is crucial. When I go to that office anticipating having to overcome real obstacles, I am pleasantly surprised when the head clerk, not much older than I, acts like an understanding father, liberally uses his many forms, rubber stamps and ink-wells and sends me off with good wishes.

Mrs. Annie Schreiber, the former Miss Annie Weiss, arrived in Vienna the middle of June. She is secure, because she carries an American passport in her handbag and wears a pin with a miniature of the American flag. Citizens of foreign countries are not molested. The authorities seem to have issued instructions to functionaries of the party to respect the rights of foreigners in order to maintain good relations with their countries. There are, of course, gradations of respect depending on the status of the country in the eyes of the Nazis. English, French, Swedish, Swiss, American citizens get full respect; Italian, Dutch, Hungarian may get some consideration, while Polish, Czech, Yugoslav or the like might as well be invisible. Mr. Dennis and Mr. Wadsworth always wear their pins with the British flag on them. Sometimes I feel a fiendish urge to try wearing such a pin myself, but I always dismiss such a foolish idea. Should I ever be challenged to show any proof, I would be in real trouble.

Anyway, she is here now and there should be a chance to talk to her. Father, as usual, tends to monopolize the conversation and even breaks into one of his choleric outbursts when I try to take part, but he recovers quickly and gets even apologetic. He has not yet fully accepted that his era of domination is over.

“You are lucky,” Annie says to me. “You asked us for the affidavit before the crisis started.” I can well imagine that now she and her husband must be besieged by friends and relatives desperate to get out. She assures us that her husband will arrive in two or three weeks and will go to the consulate to expedite the pending applications, mine included. She is looking for a birthday present for him. It turns out that he has a special interest in antique woodcarvings. This is a good time for buying art objects from private homes. Everybody who plans on leaving the country for political reasons is ready to sell, particularly to foreign visitors, if they are willing to make deferred payment by depositing the purchase price later in a bank in a country with free foreign exchange. Local money has very limited appeal for anyone who plans on leaving the country; it cannot be exchanged, nor sent abroad, nor carried along when leaving. So, who amongst our friends has good, antique woodcarvings and plans to emigrate? The Gerngross family is suggested. They are owners of the largest department store in the city and must be very wealthy. But, like so many in our circle these days, they can't comply with the recent requirements for proof of Aryan descent, so they are cultivating foreign connections and plan, eventually, to emigrate wherever they can.

Mrs. Gerngross is a petite, graceful, energetic red-haired lady. I like her a lot; she has always been very nice to me. Mr. Gerngross was a patron of the arts and Father had tried to promote him as a member of the Board of Governors for the Konzerthaus, but with no success. Now we visit the Gerngross home with Annie Schreiber, to see if she can find a wood carving to buy for her husband's birthday. Annie selects one small statuette, about six inches high, delicately carved. How much? Mrs. Gerngross hands the statuette to me. “I give this statuette to Dieter,” she says, “I value it at a hundred dollars. Dieter can collect for it in New York.” I am deeply touched. Some day, I feel, it might turn out to be a gift from Heaven, this gift from Mrs. Gerngross. Whatever might happen in this so uncertain future, I will have to thank Mrs. Gerngross for giving me a start. If it ever comes to that start. If Mr. Schreiber really comes to Vienna and arranges things for me at the consulate.

A lot of things still remain to be done. I have the basic three documents needed to get my exit permit. I have been given the name of a man who can get exit visas for Aryans, for a fee. He is a music copyist, one who writes out musical scores, copying them from composers' manuscripts. But there is no work for him now, so he is using some personal connection at the newly instituted exit authority to save prospective departees from the long waiting line and insecurity. The exit permit is valid for thirty days. Too early for that now. All now depends on the great Mr. Schreiber. In the meantime, what else can I do to prepare?

My sister Eva is out of work, but her husband's job remains safe. His relatives are not politically active, and prepared to stay and accept whatever may develop. For Eva, it is an uncomfortable situation. Because of her former job with the government press office, her friendship with many Jewish former schoolmates, her ties to England and France, she tends to look beyond the limited horizon of Austria. While her husband is not pleased with the way things are, he still counts on the security and stability of a position in government service. He resents the Nazis, but probably because they interfered with his life's established routine.

I promise Eva that if I manage to get to some place in the world beyond the reach of the swastika, I will try to find a place for her. And, eventually, we know our parents will also have to leave.

For the time being, what should one prepare? There is really nothing one can do. Some of Eva's friends are from wealthy families; they have money somewhere in foreign countries and are now concerned only with the exit papers and entry visas. Some of them probably comply with that “very wealthy” requirement and have their visa applications in progress. I feel an inner resentment at the thought that money still makes the great difference. I think of the long waiting lines at the American consulate. Those people are the hardest hit; they are Jewish and poor. And many of them are weak, old, and with little education.

Eva suggests we take a course in English shorthand. It is one thing we have never tried and she knows a girl who teaches just that. So, we take lessons in the Pitman system that, we are told, is the one predominantly used in America. We learn to write in Pitman shorthand. Meanwhile we try to learn whatever may be helpful in starting out from nothing in a foreign place. And get all information on requirements to get out.

I will need AEG's permission to leave. Since the exit permit is valid for only thirty days, I have to wait to get it until I am sure that I will be granted an American visa. Then I will need the transit visas for countries on the way and passage on a steamship line. Which one? I don't want to travel on a German ship; that might bring last minute trouble. And not on an Italian one, I don't need last minute problems with the fascists. That leaves American, English, French or Dutch steamship lines. They all are overloaded. Customers crowd the travel offices, clerks are rude and hostile; and it is hard to get answers to one's questions. Tickets are available only if you can show an entry visa to the destination country. If I really can get a transit visa for England, maybe I could fly to London. But I can get such a transit visa only if I have an American immigration visa, so everything depends on that. I would like to get to London and check on my mother's jewelry that I sent there via Mr. Dennis. And collect those eighteen pounds I got for renting that room a month or so ago. And possibly make connections for the future. I inquire about regulations for leaving the country. What will I be allowed to take with me? I certainly can't go to any official place to inquire. That would lead to questions, suspicions. So far, I understand that you may take ten marks in cash and some personal jewelry. Ten marks. That would buy one modest lunch. What then? Jewelry, what can be considered personal, without arousing suspicions? How strict are the controls at the border? Maybe I can take a seal ring, a watch, a cigarette case? Anything else? Hide something? No, not when I am finally getting out. Getting out, that's what counts; no last minute risks. In the meantime, be inconspicuous, invisible.

I met Karl Strasser, a friend of some distant relatives from the Winternitz side. We discussed the emigration situation. He implied that he had some connections in the place where exit permits were issued for non-Aryan applicants. He offered his services to me, in case I had difficulties getting my exit permit, and he reminded me that certificates of birth and baptism were required for all three generations of ancestors, both on the paternal and maternal sides to get the permit processed at the Aryan office. I knew that I had no birth papers on my father's side from grandparents on up, but I relied on my contact with that music writer turned exit expediter. But only a few days later I received a phone call from Strasser, asking me to meet him in a matter of great urgency. It had to be the next day, so I had to take a day off from work.

When I met with him the next day, he showed signs of great distress and concern, talked dramatically of “a fellow human being in desperate need” of my help, and told me one of his clients needed his exit permit immediately. But Strasser had failed to get it and could not show himself at the issuing office any more. “Only you can accomplish it; you are not known there, they will not question you. Put this swastika on and show a confident attitude.” He held a swastika pin out to me, but I declined; I had my emblem of the German Labor Front. I felt very uneasy about the whole thing; I did not know the details of the case, the place I was to visit was strange to me, the methods involved were outside of my way of thinking, and I wanted to avoid any exposure to politics. But Strasser was persuasive, stressing the need for rescue of “a human being in desperate need.”

I took the streetcar to the location he had described, where I found a long line of applicants waiting to get into the building. The line stretched out along the entire block and then around the corner, so I could not see where it ended. I had been instructed to disregard the line and walk up to the first counter, where a man would look at the papers, mark them and hand them back to me. Then with those marked papers and the passport I was to go to the next counter where the permit, in the form of a stamp and a signature, was to be put into the passport.

I turned away from the entrance, took my Labor Front pin from my pocket, and stuck it into my lapel. Then I walked through the open door, with firm, determined steps, while feeling miserably ashamed of passing ahead of the many people who waited their turn with fear in their hearts. In their eyes, I was probably one of those monsters who had caused their deplorable situation.

Inside, the place looked somewhat like a school or a meeting hall with adjoining rooms. Near the front was a table, covered with papers. Behind it sat a man who looked through one of the papers, leisurely and without any noticeable interest. He was still holding it in front of his face when I stepped before him. I could read some of the text of the papers on the table. One was a petition to allow a child of age eleven to leave for Holland, signed with a woman's name, followed by “as mother.” Another paper was a request for a departure for Switzerland and subsequent return, explaining that it was for a business transaction that would be in the interest of the German Reich. While I waited for the man to put that paper down, the telephone rang and he answered it, giving his name as Burger. There was some noise in the background. Burger had just finished his short conversation and growled, with a tone that was to be interpreted as humorous. “Quiet, back there, it's impossible to sleep.” Then he looked at me, evidently expecting recognition for his act of amusement, and I did my best to show an amused face. “What have you got?” he asked and I handed him the papers and the passport Strasser had given to me. He handed the passport back to me, glanced at the papers, marked each one with his signature, and returned them to me. I felt awkward; I did not know what the next step was, but a casual motion of Burger's hand indicated that I should go up the stairway a few steps to the left. I walked up the steps and came to a narrow hallway with a window in one wall. Behind the window sat a man at a small desk. I held the papers and the passport out to him. He took only the passport and opened it, then looked at me with a questioning gaze, picked up a rubber stamp, applied it to a blank page in the passport, dipped a pen into a crusty inkwell and made a swirl at the bottom of the stamp. Then he handed the passport back to me, holding it open, so the ink would dry. I took it, thanked him, and left. All had gone easily, yet I felt tremendous relief when I reached the open air. Strasser was even more relieved when I brought the passport and papers back to him. He told me a long tale of problems that were now solved for the owner of that passport. Three people had reason to feel relieved and I was one of them. Never again would I go to that place.

Mr. Schreiber arrived in Vienna that month. He spent a lot of time at the American consulate expediting the immigration visas for his wife's Jewish relatives. I admired his efficiency and resolve. I heard from him that there was, at the consulate, a representative of a Jewish group from America, a Mr. Jaretzki, who was active in the processing of Jewish applications. I was wondering if that would put my application in a second-rate status. In fact, I wondered if my last application, the one I had taken to the consulate that fateful afternoon many years ago, would be considered a valid application at all. If I had to submit a new one now, I would get so far back in line that I could hardly hope for a visa this year. In the meantime, what? Conscription for the Works S.A., military service? Arrest for disrespect of party activity? Stop thinking! Maybe Australia or Brazil?

I took another day off from work the following week, because Mr. Schreiber had arranged for an appointment at the consulate. With his American passport, the door was open to us. Inside, it was a different place now. No more barricades of desks and filing cabinets, unapproachable flat-shoed women with definite no-no attitudes. It was a busy place now. Men with bundles of papers, desks occupied by people interviewing dejected applicants, clattering typewriters. Mr. Schreiber asked for one specific person by name and soon an intelligent-looking, middle-aged man appeared and listened attentively to his request for a review of my case. Applications for immigration visas were, so he explained, in a tone of regret, processed in the sequence of their submittal, based on time. He pointed to a time-of-day stamp on one paper he carried and explained that only a certain number of applications could be accepted each day. When an application was received now—he made a gesture that clearly referred to the long waiting line outside it would be some time before processing could start. Mr. Schreiber listened to him in his smiling, friendly, but authoritative way and then asked him to check the files for an application that should be on record now, in my name. The man disappeared. I felt jittery, but Mr. Schreiber gave me an encouraging smile. Suddenly, the man came back, hurriedly, carrying a file folder. “We found an application from that person dating back to nineteen thirty-one! He should be processed with very little delay.”

Strasser called me again. Another case, desperate, last hope, nobody else could do it, etc. I said I did not wish to get involved anymore, I could not take the chance, I could not risk any trouble at this point, so near to my own probable departure. But this case was, oh, so special, so urgent. A long story. A mixed couple, partly Jewish, partly Aryan, an opportunity to get to England, from there to America, but only if they can leave tomorrow, etc. I am mad at Strasser, and at myself, for being too weak to refuse. I say that I will see him the next day and try. Must take a half-day off from work, again. The worst time now. One more I will do it, but not again after that.

He had two passports for me the next day, with the papers for the exit permits. I took a taxi, but made it stop about a city block away from the building. There I paid the fare, but asked him to wait for about a half hour, as I expected to be back soon.

As I passed the waiting line, I was shocked when one woman called my name. She was part owner of one of the stores I had supplied with my art-craft goods. They still owed me some money, but that belonged to a different era. We spoke, but only briefly. She thought that I had some connections or authority in that dreadful place. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. Inside the building I turned towards a corner and put on my Labor Front pin. Then I walked with firm, confident steps towards the table where the man I recognized as Burger sat lazily behind his table, with papers scattered around. I was tense, more than during my previous visit and did not make any effort to read any text on the various papers. Burger glanced lazily over the papers, while I held on to the two passports. He then put his signatures on the papers and held them out to me. “Weren't you here the other day?” he said. I just nodded, took the papers and walked on towards the stairway that led to the window where the man handled the passports. There I pushed two passports through the window as casually as I could manage, mumbled some greeting, instantly realizing that the proper thing to say, under the circumstances, would be “Heil Hitler.” To my great relief, the man took the passports, applied his rubber stamp to each one, and reached for his pen. As he dipped it into the inkwell, he raised his head slightly and looked at me. For an instant, he hesitated, then he applied his swirls to the imprints; then he placed his fists firmly on the table and looked squarely at me.

“Weren't these here a week ago?” he asked suspiciously.

“No” I said firmly.

“How did you get into handling these?” He regarded me with suspicion as he held the passports in his hand.

“I was sent by the lawyer,” I said. “He handles this case.” As I spoke, I reached into the window, with my index finger extended, like I was trying to point to a particular place on one of the passports. With a sudden, quick move, I grabbed the two passports, pulled them out through the window and ran towards the end of the corridor, where a narrow stairway appeared to have its upper end. “Stop!” I heard him shouting. “Stop or I'll shoot!” I did not stop. He did not shoot. I ran down the narrow stairs, which ended in a shorter corridor on the ground floor, with a door, which, to my great relief, opened to the outside. The street was deserted. I walked away slowly, still fearing pursuit, and was vastly relieved to find that my taxi was still waiting.

Strasser was not at his place, but a young couple was waiting for me. The man was tall and blonde, the woman dark haired, thin faced and high-strung. She complained, in screeching voice, that it had taken so long, that she had been promised by Strasser that she would get a special permit to take money with her on the trip, and that she should get special treatment because she was half-Aryan. Her husband talked to her in a calm, but not quite consoling way, saying that she had renounced her half-Aryan status by marrying him. I remembered what I had read about the rules on race determinations, that a half-Aryan would be considered Jewish if married to a Jew. They were both obviously on edge and their attitude towards me was in no way friendly. I thought of the people in the long waiting line. Anyone of them would have deserved my intervention far more than these two. I wished them a safe trip and left.

Back to work, to the power transmission line for the Hermann Goering Works. There is more talk about the formation of a company storm troop corps. There is even a list of proposed members, with my name on it. And more talk about military service. Outside, summer drags on.

[…]When I had received that notice from the consulate, I had run all those errands for documents, different ones again, new ones and duplicates that had to be certified and then there had come that great day when Consul Reinhart had said those all-overpowering words, “You can have the visa now.” And the next day I had collapsed with a sore throat. Why would one get a sore throat when something important happens? Nervous stress? Exhaustion?

And then the wild chase for a steamship ticket. The French Line was still the most cooperative. The Cunard Line would not talk to me and the United States Line was, for all practical purpose, unapproachable. The French were ready to accept German money for the ticket and even included a six-day hotel coupon for Paris and the equivalent of twenty dollars that I would then get on the ship, from the purser, for expenses on board. Must see about it tomorrow.[…]

That train ride from Vienna to Paris. Twenty-two hours. Going past Salzburg, through Innsbruck and over the Arlberg, that beautiful scenery passing by, the mountains I might never see again—or maybe I will, who knows? “Auf Wiedersehen,” the porter had said, emphasizing it deeply. And I heard him say it to other travelers, just the same deep, urgent way to anyone who was, quite obviously, leaving to get away, emigrating. That feeling I had as the mountains passed by, the peaks in the clouds, the waterfalls. Would I now, after all, get that painful nostalgia that tells you that you have a homeland after all? No, my homeland will be America, if all goes well. I have my Swiss transit visa, my French visa that came with the ticket. At the border, I will act inconspicuous. Then in Paris, I will go to the British consulate to get a visa for three days in England. Stop living it all over again. […]

At AEG, they had really been quite decent. Paid me for the unused part of my vacation. And, a proportional amount for that thirteenth monthly salary that is customarily paid at Christmas time. In America, my father had said, employers don't pay anything at Christmas—and you get no vacations and no separation money if you are laid off. And no unemployment support and no pensions. I had never listened and still don't care. First, let me get to America. I had taken forty marks with me, figuring that I would spend some of it on the trip up to the border; then I would have about ten marks left and that is what you are permitted to take out. But I had thirty-nine left when the foreign exchange inspector came at the border into France, at Strasburg, and I asked him if he would take the twenty-nine and send them to my parents. Gave him their address and asked him if he would give me a receipt for those twenty-nine marks. He said a receipt would not be practical, but he would send the money to the address. I am sure he did it; the Germans are quite accurate and reliable in such matters. So far, I have not had any confirmation yet. Not even during that last telephone conversation from Le Havre. Maybe he did not send it, after all?

And then in Paris, what would I have done without Edith, my former schoolmate? She was helpful and supportive, lent me the money I needed to subsist until I could get those eighteen pounds from England. Those days in Paris were quite depressing. It seemed like France was going Hitler's way already. “Mort au juifs” writings on walls and Metro windows. French radio full of understanding for Hitler's program. “Je ne parle que pour mes Allemands.” Good thing I am going further west. But what will happen to Edith if he succeeds? And that miserable, arrogant clerk at the British consulate, where I had asked for a visa for three days in London. Showed him my American visa, but all he wanted to know was “How much money do you have?” That's why I went on to Le Havre. There, with my American visa and my steamship ticket, they should have enough evidence that I was not intending to contaminate their glorious country with my miserable presence.

[…] In Le Havre the chase had really started. I wanted to get to London, for three days, see about Mother's jewelry, collect my eighteen pounds, contact, if possible, Mr. Dennis or his firm and deposit that little oil painting of Haydn that Father had given me last minute, to take to London. There is a Haydn Society there and they might be interested in it; it is a contemporary painting and of very good quality.

But the British consulate in Le Havre was even more impenetrable. At the counter was a man, who could well have played the part of a nobleman's butler, instructed to keep out all human trash. No visa, no admission, no consideration “and we request that you don't insist.” Might as well realize it—anybody coming out of Germany these days is a pariah, an untouchable, unwanted, unclean.

I remember Miss Wood, of the British consulate in Vienna. I have that valid American visa now. In Vienna, before I left, the consulate had been inaccessible. Now my passport with the American visa is here, Miss Wood is in Vienna; how can I get the two together. Of course, I wouldn't mail my passport to her; that little paper book with those rubber stamps and embossed imprints is part of my biology, my one hope of survival. But if I can get a confirmation of my American visa from the local American consulate, I can mail that to her and ask her to contact the British consulate here on my behalf. Try it!

At the American consulate in Le Havre, the people all appeared very young. That's encouraging; maybe they would be more understanding. The young man who heard my request for a letter confirming that I had an American visa was certainly understanding, but not at all helpful. “We have nothing to do with that.”

Anything left? There is a German consulate here. Of all things, try that. Things can't get any worse. The German consul, a remarkably good-looking, intelligent gentleman, was ready to help. First he called the British consulate on my behalf. No success. He knew that butler-type character. His name was Keebler and he sabotaged every request that came to him. Then he sat down with me and discussed my problem. My passport with the American visa was still my original Austrian one. That gave me a wild idea. Could he issue to me a new, German passport without canceling my existing Austrian one and give me an official letter confirming that I had a valid American visa? He consented readily. Then I sent, via express mail, that new German passport and the consular letter to Miss Wood, at the British consulate in Vienna. And a telegram to my father asking him to expedite it by getting in touch with Miss Wood.

The results were explosive. First an international telephone call, late at night, poor connection, with noise and interference. My mother scolded me violently for what I had done; my father had thrown a fit, was too upset to talk to me. How could I have done such a foolish thing, letting my passport out of my hands! It took me a long time to convince her that I still had my passport, the one with the visa to America. Eventually, calm was restored. It must be terrible for a parent, I realized, to have a son who is stupid, irresponsible and incapable of growing up.

Next, a message from the German consul. I should go to the British consulate; they have called him about me. And, eventually, a visa for England, for three days, with a long, handwritten paragraph stating that the visa was granted by a letter from H.M. consulate in Vienna. Thank you, Miss Wood!

And then, a night on the Channel boat to Southampton, then customs inspection, and passport control. “How long are you going to stay? How much money do you have?” Southern Railway, Waterloo Station, bus rides, a very lovely, very young girl helping me to find my way. Contact with Bunty. Yes, she has the jewelry, will take care of the painting. The Brown parents are out of town, the older sister Verity married and living in Uruguay. Visit to Canadian and General Finance Ltd; Mr. Dennis not there, but the whole firm seems to know all about me. All very curious about conditions under Hitler, all properly horrified. Efforts to make connections for my parents, no success. All under the wings of Bunty, the determined, matter-of-fact angel. Three days, ending with Waterloo Station, the boat train, passing through Guildford in the dark; too tired for memories. Then transfer to a tender, climb on board, Isle de France. […]

A transatlantic crossing is a time of relaxed comfort, a sequence of days of joy and delight. If you travel first class. And if you have wonderful memories of the places you left behind. And if you look forward to the warm, blissful comfort of the place that awaits you when you debark; your own home. If you travel tourist, then it is a little more austere, but still better than economy. And if your memories of what you left behind are mixed, at best, then the joy is a little subdued, but it still is better than if you had stayed behind. But if you don't have anything specific to look forward to, then the future can look somewhat clouded.

My cabin mate was Mr. Braun, who was returning from a pleasure tour of France and looked forward to his home and business in Chicago. The cabin was of ample size and the steward, M. Bidoit, was very friendly and found time for us in spite of the incessant calls “Steward” by passengers of all ages and sexes, and frequent calls by the youthful attendant, who ran through the corridors, calling: “Bidoit! Bidoit!” During that first day our need for M. Bidoit was rare and consisted mostly of questions, the first one as to the expected duration of the trip, to which Bidoit could only smile and shrug his shoulders. At the end of the first day, I felt quite insecure about the date, and during all the following days, I had no longer any concept of time.

As my first task I arranged a visit to the Chef Mecanicien, who was most gracious and ready to show and describe to me all phases of the propulsion system, readily emphasizing that the 250 turning speed of turbines and propellers was unusual and “ce n'est pas economique.” The navigation equipment was fascinating, but there was not enough time for it, because I was on the early shift for the dining room—the result of my late arrival on board, at Southampton. The convenient, later shifts had been taken by the more experienced passengers who had boarded in Le Havre.

After dinner, I decided to go to the cinema. On the way there, I had to hold on to the railings on the corridor walls and stairways. I expected to leisurely enjoy the movie, but soon I felt an insecure sensation in the stomach area. Yet I was reluctant to retreat to the cabin. The idea of Mr. Braun coming in later at night and finding me lying on my bed, pale, unsteady, and, oh no, not that unspeakable word, seasick, was unbearable. But the external forces prevailed. I gave up and walked, or tumbled, or staggered, towards the small room that was to be home for two weary travelers for the next sequence of days. There, on the other bed, lay a crumpled, miserable figure—Mr. Braun.

The next day, I rose early, for the first shift of breakfast, which I could not eat, and then I climbed to the deck. A group of sailors was busy stretching ropes between the rows of posts, “pour se tenir,” as one explained to me. Skies were gray, the water was rough; the ropes became increasingly welcome “pour me tenir.” Two weary passengers were negotiating with a deck officer about rental of deck chairs, which was required, “because you can't stay in somebody else's chair.” On that item, the French officer spoke clear, effortless English. I gave some short thought to the situation and, considering my financial status, I decided to try to do exactly what I supposedly could not do. The number of passengers on deck was very sparse and remained that way throughout the voyage.

But I was aware now that my financial status had to be assessed. I had the coupon for twenty dollars that had come with my ticket. And two half-crowns and a sixpence left over from my stay in England, after I had collected those eighteen pounds and sent to Edith what I still owed her, although she had written to me that I should keep it because I was going into the unknown. And two French francs and fourteen centimes. And a small seal ring and that gold cigarette case, which held four cigarettes that I had carefully placed inside so it would look like an article of personal use and not like a piece of value to take out. And that small piece of pure gold, which my uncle, the dentist, had given to me the day of my departure. It was the size of a small almond and rattled nicely, without being conspicuous, in my change purse with the various coins. And ahead, in the future, was that security item of a hundred dollars for the wood statuette that Mrs. Gerngross had sold, for my benefit, to Mrs. Schreiber. And that American one-cent coin, that dated back to our grandparents. Mother had given it to me last minute. It was a small copper coin with the head of an Indian on one side. Maybe it would not even be valid anymore, but it was, at least, one piece of American money.

The next day, I went to the purser's office and presented my coupon and the English and French coins for exchange. He gave me two five-dollar bills, ten one-dollar bills and some coins; two were marked “quarter dollar,” one was marked “five cents,” and one was very small and had no numerals at all, only in small letters it read “one dime.” Whatever that meant.

The days went by pleasantly, once seasickness had been overcome. Sometimes, in the evenings, a little talk with Mr. Braun. An acquaintance with a young French couple, whose deck chairs were near the one I sometimes usurped. A few words, as courtesy required, with the one or two fellow diners who occasionally came to our six-place table, green-faced, tense, withdrawn, concerned with the weather, or with the outlook for tomorrow. And then came that great day, when the sun came out and all the happy people appeared from everywhere, upright, healthy, secure, with tales about their bravely weathering the storm. And rumors that land would soon be in sight. There was talk about soon passing the Statue of Liberty. I was determined to stay on deck to spot it, to see it, to honor it, and to feel the moment of entry into the new life.

The sun set and then, suddenly, the skyline of the skyscraper city was there. Darkness descended slowly as my heart seemed to beat now with the reduced pace of the propellers. I realized that I had missed the moment of sighting the great symbol of freedom, for now darkness covered all but the lights and contours of the docks we passed, of the buildings nearby. But there appeared, majestic in radiant, beaming light, the words, the message, the thought that made American hearts beat stronger, calling back that feeling of hearth and home, after those long deprivations abroad: BUDWEISER BEER.

In New York I made the rounds of employment agencies and filled out countless applications. What should I use for a first name? That excessively Germanic name that I am stuck with might prove to be an obstacle. I could change it to the closest English name, Derrick. Use that. Then I have to put down my address. Which one? Where can I be reached? Gerhart's? Mr. Schreiber's? Date of birth. O.K. Place of birth. Is it Vienna, Austria, or by now, Vienna, Germany? Nationality? Nationality of father, nationality of mother? What more do they want to know? Race. Color. Complexion—dark or fair? Elementary school. High school. College, how many years? Graduated—Yes, no? By the time I am halfway through an application form, I am discouraged and feel I am wasting my time.

At one agency in Queens a Mr. Sternberg motions me to come to his desk and sit down in a chair next to it. “You're an engineer?”

“Yes.”

“What line?”

“Electrical.”

“I've got a job for you. Westinghouse X-Ray. Good salary. But you need an introduction,”

“I am very interested,” I say. “I would like to apply.”

For a few seconds he is silent. Then his expression changes. “No,” he says. “You wouldn't qualify. Unless …” He stops. “If you had a good introduction. How much money do you have?” The one question I hate most. I hesitate. “About ten dollars now. But …”

“Guess there's nothing we can do now,” he says. “See us some other time.”

I feel almost relieved. Now I have to spend a precious nickel to take a long subway ride to make a visit to Schofield Agency, far downtown, where a Mr. Melroy took the time to talk to me two days ago. It is my third day in New York. Maybe I am doing the wrong thing. Perhaps I should first explore all my personal contacts—Peter Drucker, Walter Steene, Harry Krugman.

Peter Drucker was in his office on Liberty Street in Manhattan. A small room; the front section partitioned off for a desk with a typewriter. He must have a secretary. He was smiling, cordial, and truly kind and told me about ways to get jobs. Good jobs, he emphasized. He had a lead for me. I must go to a business not far away and see Mr. Landon. When I arrived, Mr. Landon was ready to see me. He took my name down and some data about my qualifications and told me I would hear from him. And then I went to see Walter Steene, at the Red Star Line.

Walter is the brother of my university colleague Rudolf Steiner. We graduated together. But Walter, who came to America earlier, had his name changed to eliminate the foreign impression. Walter was not only cordial and helpful, but he also had some very useful advice. He said that I had to file an application for something called First Papers, a declaration of intention to become a citizen. Then he told me of an organization called The Catholic Committee for Refugees from Germany. It was located downtown, not far from his office at the steamship line. I could go there that afternoon. He also strongly advised me to go to the Hebrew Immigration and Sheltering Society. They had extensive contacts and would not discriminate against me for not being Jewish. And he invited me to have dinner with him that night.

When I arrived at the Committee's office, I was given yet another long form to fill out. Among many other things, it asked for the name and address of the sponsor of my immigration visa. I was very hesitant about giving Mr. Schreiber's name and asked the girl if I could omit this item. No, it was required. They had to have this information. At the end of the form was a sentence saying that this application had to be accompanied by a letter from the applicant's priest confirming his active membership in the Catholic faith. I asked if this could be waived, considering the distance and time delay resulting from it. No, it was required and my application could not be processed without it. I pointed out that my priest was far away, that mail could reach him in, at best, three weeks, so his answer could, therefore, not be expected until six weeks from now. I needed a job now. What was I to do in the meantime? Well, it was their requirement and there were no exceptions.

Walter took me to a very good dinner that evening at a place called Champlain's. He encouraged me to be patient. Well, I had certainly learned a great deal about patience in Vienna.

On the following day I filled out the application for First Papers at the Department of Immigration and Naturalization. Well down the list of questions was one about race. After a moment's thought I put down “German” because it was the closest approximation to Austrian. Then, along with seven others, I placed my hand on an old, worn Bible held out by the clerk who accepted the application and swore that my statements were the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Then the clerk politely showed me the way out.

That afternoon, however, things at the Hebrew Immigration and Sheltering office were livelier. Two resolute-looking, middle-aged women interrupted their conversation and one of them asked how she could help me. I began my story by expressing my hope that they could include me in their employment referral program although I was not Jewish. But I had been referred by a Jewish friend and had many Jewish friends and also some Jewish relatives. And I came from a society in which Jews and Christians mixed freely and I had, in two cases, obtained exit visas for Jewish people at considerable personal risk. She listened, to everything I had to say, wrote something on a slip of paper, and handed it to me, explaining that it was the address of an organization called National Council of Jewish Women and a name, Mrs. S. Bienstock. I thanked her and went on my way.

Mrs. Bienstock listened to my story without making any comments or asking any questions, took down my personal information, and told me to call back in a week.

That evening, I wrote a letter to Michael Pfliegler, my religion teacher at school, explaining that I needed his confirmation that I was a Catholic and had been his pupil in his Catholic religion class. I sealed it with a feeling of guilt, wondering if I was not a double agent, or, at least, an opportunist. But, so far, there were no opportunities in sight.

The next day, I was interviewed by two companies, one selling soap and the other vacuum cleaners door to door. Unfortunately I needed a car to get either job. The rest of the week went by quickly as I applied for one job after another, without success. When I went to the home of Mr. Krugman, his housekeeper told me he was out of town on business.

There was one more reference I had, to a man named Randolph, who was in the advertising business. He was a son-in-law of Mrs. Bernays, supposedly a friend of my father's parents. He, too, was out of town.

It was time to see Mrs. Bienstock again. She was expecting me. She had an inquiry from a Mr. Zifferblatt in Philadelphia, a cigar maker willing to employ a refugee with a background in machine work. So farewell to New York and on to Philadelphia by train.

Arrival in Philadelphia had not exactly been a triumph. At first, it had looked quite nice. A big railroad bridge over a small river, a large, antique-looking building on a hill near the river, then railroad tracks and more railroad tracks, a skyline with a few high buildings in the distance. A considerably reduced version of what New York might have looked like, long ago.

With my heavy suitcase, getting through the station was a chore. There were taxis at the station, but how long would my three dollars last? And streetcars—but where did they stop and where did they go? And would they take a nickel like in New York? So I walked in what seemed to be the right direction and finally arrived at Ninth Street.

When I arrived at the address I had been given I was cordially received by Miss Rita Shubin, a very busy, extremely active, middle-aged lady, who seemed to be well informed about my arrival. She must have been in contact with Mrs. Bienstock all along. She called the cigar factory and arranged for an immediate meeting. She took me there and introduced me to my future boss, then took me to a small clothing store two blocks away where I purchased a shirt and a pair of pants, as well as work clothes, old, mended and pressed, for almost two dollars. She had arranged for me to be a boarder with a German family in a place called Frankford, two in one room, and three dollars per week. I would start work tomorrow.

Third and Spruce Streets, in Philadelphia—George Zifferblatt's cigar factory. The fellows in the machine shop are quite nice. The first one I met was William Mohr; he spelled his name out for me on a paper bag. “Just call me Bill.” That was early morning. Then the other fellows arrived. Steve, young, dark haired, with a high-pitched voice. Carl, tall, blond, the boss, was away from the shop a lot to see what work needed to be done to machinery in the factory. Butler, small thin, with a gurgling voice, did the building maintenance. Did I know anything about electric wiring? Plumbing? O.K. For the time being, they need two studs like this; use that lathe there, but you have to fix the bearings on the lathe first.

I went to work at a small bench lathe, marked ATLAS, with flat ways and a V-belt drive from a half-horsepower motor. The spindle chattered when I tried to take a cut on the steel bar in the chuck and I agreed that the bearings were worn out. I took the bearings apart and removed one of the shims to reduce the clearance, but it did not make much difference. It was clear that the bearings needed scraping to fit the shaft, something I had read about but not done before. Bill found some of the blue dye paste used to show the contact of the shaft in the bearing. To my surprise, I was soon able to get the lathe working—more or less.

I thought I had learned shop terms used in English but I soon encountered some that were unfamiliar. After I had heard Bill repeatedly refer to what he called his “ass,” I began to realize that he was not talking about a four-legged, long-eared pack animal. A frequently used term, in no specific connection, sounded to me like “shitt,” and another word, “fock,” was applied, as a verb in the extended-action form, to various objects. I asked Bill politely about the meaning of that word. He had a wonderful time explaining it and the mood of the day became more cheerful, in spite of the bad bearings of the Atlas lathe.

The week neared its end and on Friday afternoon I received my first, partial week's pay. It was a little over eight dollars, so I figured out that I was going to get fourteen dollars for a full week. In New York, I had been told that engineers usually got twenty-five dollars per week to start, but, after all, this was Philadelphia, a cigar factory, a machine shop in that cigar factory and I was a machinist, a half-baked one. I now had over eight dollars, plus that seal ring, plus my golden cigarette case, plus that little piece of gold.

Tonight, I would pay my first partial week's rent for that one-half of a bedroom I shared in Frankford and next week I would write to Mr. Schreiber for a hundred dollars for the statuette from Mrs. Gerngross.

On Saturday night I was really very tired after walking home from the factory. I had decided to walk, to save the fare and to see the city. The fare, I was quite displeased to learn, was higher here than in New York. And the walk through the city! Row house after row house, in one red brick street after another, endless. In the shop, Steve had explained the system of the street numbers in the city and I was quite impressed. A very good system of coordinates of streets East-West and North-South, with house numbers tied to the street numbers. I should have been able to estimate the distance, but I was too intent on taking the walk.

It was late afternoon when I finally arrived home. My roommate was sitting in the living room and listening to the radio. He was a helper in a bakery. He was quite satisfied and settled in his job and did not anticipate any changes in the near future. He was a relative of the landlord, who was actually leasing the house from someone else and rented every existing space, including at least two beds in every second floor room and at least one, as far as I could see, on the couch in the living room.

As the other boarders arrived, I chatted with them, trying to learn something about the various types of work they did. The man of the house was a butcher and so were two of the other roomers. Another worked in a canning plant. They all came from somewhere in the southeastern part of Germany and spoke in a Swabian dialect. I recognized it from memories of an automobile trip we had made years earlier through the Black Forest area. They all were Jewish, as I soon found out, and that explained their presence. Yet their appearance and attitude were no different from any German working class group, as far as I could tell.

Then the woman of the house arrived. She was, as far as I could gather from her conversation with others, the only person in the house who did not work outside during the day. She had a stack of mail for me, all from the Schreibers' address. My mail of the last four weeks had been forwarded to me. I took it to my room, hoping to find room enough to spread all letters out for convenient reading and to make some space for my little portable typewriter. But I had to be content with stretching out on my bed as I read through the long delayed news from here and abroad.

In one letter Father repeats some of the names he has given me before—Bernays, Randolph, Krugman. He thinks there may also be relatives with our name in Chicago. I should look them up. And why did I not look up Mr. X in Paris and Mr. Y. in London, while I was there? (I did, dear father, and they were both good for nothing.) And if I ever got to Philadelphia, there was, of course, Mr. Ormandy, who had so eagerly expressed his desire to be of help when he visited us two years ago. (Yes, Father, I am here now, but really not in circumstances suitable to approach a man in such a distinguished position.) And here is a great contact, a letter from Dr. Dumba, who was Austrian ambassador to the United States until 1916 and was very close to a Mr. Earle, who is now Governor of Pennsylvania. He should be very helpful. (With what, Pop?) And he had succeeded in making an application for a visa to England and has been told that he might get it if he had a valid case pending for eventual admission to the United States.

In Austria the situation was getting more threatening all the time. I should not forget to surrender “that document” at the “place we discussed.” Before I left, he had told me that I had to surrender my Austrian passport at the German consulate after I got to America. It was a requirement, due to the new German status of Austria. If I failed to do it, he would be subject to prosecution, which meant a concentration camp. Yes, I will do it, Pop, as soon as I find out where the nearest German consulate is and when I can get time off to go there. But what will I have left then, as a personal document? That German passport I got in LeHavre? I destroyed that before going to England.

But there is also a thick letter from Mr. Schreiber with many enclosures. One of them is a personal introduction for me to a man named Dick Schneider in Philadelphia, on Spruce Street; I hope that's not near the cigar factory. No, the house number is high, four digits. Then, a long letter to me. It tells me that he, Mr. Schreiber, has received the enclosed letter from a Mrs. Elisabeth Reinitz in Montevideo, Uruguay, explaining that she is a daughter of Mrs. Gerngross in Vienna and that she, Mrs. Reinitz, is now in Montevideo, Uruguay, with her husband Stefan Reinitz and that her mother, Mrs. Gerngross, has informed her that Mr. Schreiber is holding an amount of $100 for a wood-carved statuette and that she, Mrs. Gerngross, has given her the address of Mrs. Schreiber, who took the statuette with her in Vienna and now requests her to send those $100 to her husband Stefan Reinitz, at Calle Juncal 1388 in Montevideo, and, as Mr. Schreiber explains in his letter to me, the enclosed check to Mr. Stefan Reinitz for $100 is to be mailed to him, Stefan Reinitz, at Calle Juncal, Montevideo. Oh, yes—to make it easier for me he had a letter typed in my name to go with the check for $100, explaining that the money will probably not be paid to him in U.S. dollars, but in local currency.

So there it goes, my security, my last resort. I had been asked the inevitable question by a man from the Immigration Department when the ship arrived in New York: “How much money do you have?” I assured him that I had the hundred dollars waiting for me in order to persuade him to let me debark right away rather than sending me to Ellis Island for “processing,” whatever that meant. What, really, should I do now? Write to Mr. Schreiber and tell him that those hundred dollars should really go to me? Were Mrs. Reinitz and her husband in severe need? In Uruguay? Well, let it go to them, to Montevideo, Calle Juncal 1388. The envelope is addressed and stamped; Mr. Schreiber is thorough. I will ask Bill at the shop Monday where I can sell my seal ring and my gold piece and my cigarette case.

On Monday morning the men left the house for work. The girl who slept on the living room couch left later; she had a job that started later in the day. A gray morning, a walk to the elevated railroad, over the street, on thin steel structures, in the middle of the street, close to the walls and windows of the red brick row houses. Learn to remember where to change trains, get off at Third, and walk to Spruce. It will be a long week. We will work all Saturday, the wrapper machines must be cleaned. In the evening, I will walk up Spruce Street to visit Dick Schneider.

Dick turned out to be a delightful young man, a student at the University of Pennsylvania. He explained to me that the area where he lived was close to what he called the Penn Campus—campus means field in Latin, my first chance to use something from school—so it probably means the area where university activities take place. He helped me to draft a letter to Governor Earle, who was, so Dick explained, in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania's capital. It was news to me that state capitals are usually not the largest city in the state, but one located near the geographic center. Quite a good policy, I thought. And the neighborhood, West Philadelphia, where Dick rented his room was so much more appealing than Frankford.

I went there the next evening to look for houses with “Room for Rent” signs. There were many. I looked at some and came to terms with an old man with a growling way of talking, but quite friendly and eager to make a deal. Four dollars a week, two in one room, five and a half if I wanted the room alone. We settled for three and a half plus the bundle of cigars that I got with my pay on Fridays—and I would let him put another fellow in the room, if he found one. I saw real progress; now I would have a place for my typewriter. That evening, I made a deal with my landlord in Frankford, paying a full week, but leaving the next night. I moved by taxi which cost me almost two dollars.

Now I have a new address, 3926 Spruce Street.

[…] That Saturday, we worked the full day, cleaning the wrapper machines. Thick accumulations of tobacco dust; the air gets full of it. It will stay in my clothes. I walk home in the afternoon going up Spruce Street. My typewriter is waiting and I have a long list in my head of people, firms, and committees. I want to find a better job, preferably one that has nothing to do with tobacco. My hair smells of it.

I find very little in the advertisements in the newspapers—The Philadelphia Inquirer, the Public Ledger, and the Bulletin. But I will continue to read them as often as I can. […] That is the next thing to do, find a jeweler and sell my three pieces, that seal ring, the cigarette case and the little gold piece. Maybe I really should have tried to smuggle something out, rather than leaving with just those ten German marks. And, so far, my parents have not received the twenty-nine marks I gave to the inspector to send back. Did he keep them?

My little typewriter clatters. It is getting late.

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