Coming down the stairs, I saw mama Grey being busy in the kitchen. When she heard my steps on the carpeted stairway, she looked up and came running over to me, and hugged me with a tight grip. Telling me over and over how happy she was to have me living with her, she asked me what I would like for breakfast. Did I want cereal or bacon and eggs? And how about orange juice and a grapefruit with sugar sprinkled on it? Not wanting her to have to mess around too much on my behalf, I opted for cereal, orange juice and grapefruit. -Mama Grey was almost a clone of the "grandma" in the "Beverly Hillbillies" television series which I had sometimes watched in Germany. Tough, wiry with a heart of gold, that indeed was my new "mama" Grey.
  Sitting at the kitchen table eating my Kellog's corn-flakes, she sat across me cutting into my grapefruit so I could just eat it with a tea-spoon. She told me that she was a "country girl" from the hills of Virginia, a southern girl..... and that her daughter, Martha, was at work as a secretary in one of the many government building in Washington. Actually she worked for the Navy and was a federal employee, whatever that meant, I wasn't quite sure of.
  After eating my tasty and refreshing breakfast, she showed me around the modest house telling me about her long deceased husband and how they had bought the house dirt cheap in the forties and added on to it gradually, with her husband doing most of the work himself. She had a strong southern accent and I had a hard time understanding her, but somehow we communicated just fine. She showed me the "backyard" with freshly cut lawn and lots of flowers. It was hot outside and for the first time, I got a real "feel" for what America was like. Not the big and mostly ugly cities with slums and poverty, but suburban, lower middle-class America.
  Going around to the front yard which was enclosed by a white picket fence, I saw her ancient looking Plymouth sitting in the driveway. Amazed, I realized that this old, dark green car from the late thirties or early forties looked exactly like one of the junked cars I had reflected upon standing guard the at "Quartermaster Depot" in Berlin....
  Again, I instantly thought of Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse. This car, a two-seater, looked just like Donald Duck's car in cartoons! Well, actually, upon inspecting it closer, I saw that it wasn't just a two-seater, but had a small bench seat behind the front seats.

  The phone rang, and mama Grey ran inside to get it, while I still admired her antique car. Coming back out, she told me that that had been Pastor Schumann and that he was coming over to drive me around for a while...

  Soon Pastor Schumann drove up and we drove to the Social Security office in Arlington, which was just a place that looked like a small store. He had told me, when we were ready to go, to bring all my papers and documents with me. So I carried my papers and passport with me as we went inside. Within minutes, I had a Social Security number issued, which the clerk wrote down for me on a piece of paper while telling me that I would receive the card in the mail.
  Next we went to another little office not far from the Social Security office which was called something like the "draft board" office. Bringing my papers inside again, Pastor Schumann explained that I was required, by law, to immediately sign up at the local "draft board" office to get my "Selective Service" rating. Wow, I thought, that Consul in Berlin wasn't kidding when he told me that I was eligible to be drafted upon arrival in the United States! Here too, I was told by an old man, a veteran I presumed, that I would receive my "classification" in the mail.
  Having thus taken care of "official requirements," Pastor Schumann took me to the local bakery while explaining to me that I might be able to get a job there as a baker..... I wanted to scream: "Hell no, I won't go," because I learned, the hard way, to hate everything and anything related to baking, but, instead just went along with him, pretending that I was interested. When we walked in, the bakery looked and smelled just like thousands of bakeries in Germany. It gave me the creeps and when the owner, a middle aged Italian looking man came out from the back, I prayed silently that he wouldn't have an opening.... And he didn't. Looking at us, he told us that he had just hired a baker and thus didn't need any help. "Thank you God", I thought...

  While driving me around Arlington, I suddenly couldn't believe my eyes! There, next to a door, stood a young man, about my own age, dressed in a khaki uniform with a swastika armband on his left arm.... Had I not seen the same thing, many years ago, with the "Scharnhorst Jugend" in Berlin-Kreutzberg? This guy was for real! This was the procedure for "Hitler Youth" and later the various other right-wing youth organizations!
  Pointing to the uniformed man and expressing my astonishment to Pastor Schumann, he explained to me that this was the headquarters for the American Nazi Party, lead by a "crazy" guy named Lincoln Rockwell. Seeing my excitement and interest, Pastor Schumann warned me sternly that I should never get involved with any kind of political movement and never, ever sign any petitions because this could jeopardize my citizenship. He further elaborated that there were many communist front groups who tried to come across as just citizen action groups who sometimes collected signatures for all kinds of petitions. If I signed anything, I could be suspected of being a communist and thus could be deported back to Germany. Wow, I thought, this is scary stuff, but I would surely like to go to those Nazi party headquarters to talk with this Lincoln Rockwell... Pastor Schumann also pointed out that those Nazis were watched by the FBI and that I should never even go near their office... Well, I didn't, but I certainly regret having missed this opportunity, because Lincoln Rockwell was shot and killed later by one of his own people.

  Continuing our ride, Pastor Schumann took me to Washington and showed me the white house and capitol. It was cherry-blossom time, and all the beautiful parks seemed to radiate with cherry-blossom trees. The sky was blue and the sun shining which seemed to give those majestic looking government building a special beauty. "Yes, this was America", I thought to myself, and I am right here where I belong....I am at home, finally!

                                                             
On the way back towards Arlington, Pastor Schumann drove to one of the many Pentagon entrances. It must have been the main entrance, if there was such a thing. The place was absolutely unimaginably huge, reminding me somewhat of the Tempelhof Airport complex, but much, much bigger, of course. Parking his car in a large parking lot, he told me that he was going to show me the inside. Walking in together, I was just about speechless. This place was even larger and more complex than I had imagined. And it was busy.... Employees or soldiers, I didn't know what they were, were riding tricycles which had baskets attached to them. Pastor Schumann explained to me that this was how they got around to deliver papers, folders and messages. Since we were only allowed in a small part of this unimaginably huge complex, I got only a slight idea how big and busy the Pentagon really was. But it was enough to leave me with a life-long impression...

"Hot Shoppes"

  Our next stop was across the highway where a place called "Hot Shoppes" was located. Pastor Schumann parked his car in a large parking area which had metal poles with loudspeakers and microphones attached to them. Shortly after we had pulled in, a young man came up to us and handed us two menus. Since I didn't know what most of those meals listed were, Pastor Schumann chose a hamburger with "everything" on it for me. After we had made our selection, Pastor Schumann used the microphone to call-in his order. Looking around while waiting for the food, I noticed that the parking lot was loaded with uniformed, military men, in private cars. Asking Pastor Schumann about that, he told me that most of them worked at the Pentagon, across the street, who came here for lunch.
  Soon the same guy came back with a large tray, carrying our food. He wore long black trousers, a white shirt with black bow-tie and a coin-changing device attached to his belt. A device I had seen in Berlin countless times, worn by bus and street-car conductors (Schaffners). Upon attaching our tray to the somewhat rolled-down car window, Pastor Schuman paid the young man and he left. The hamburger was delicious with onion, tomato and catsup on it. We had each also a large cup of coke. After finishing our meal Pastor Schumann took the tray off the car widow and put it onto a tray-holder attached to the pole with the loudspeaker and mike. Then, he asked me what I thought about working at this place, doing the same thing this young guy who had served our food was doing. I didn't know what to say, but knew that he expected me to be affirmative. Thus, although scared to death, I said "sure, why not."
  I could tell that he was hell bent on getting me a job as soon as possible and thus surrendered to my fate. Getting out of the car, he told me that we would go and talk to the manager and see if they had any openings.
  The manager, dressed like the server, but wearing a tan jacket, was a clean-cut looking young man in his late twenties, I presumed. After Pastor Schumann had introduced me to him, he proceeded to tell him my situation and then asked him if he had a job opening for me. The manager, who seemed to like me, asked me what I thought... Would I be able to do the job? I answered that I would give it my best and that I was sure I could learn the routine quickly. He seemed to like my answer, took me into his closet-sized office and had me fill out a form. And that was it. I was hired on the spot as a "car-hop"..... His next question was when I could start working and brave as a trooper, jumping down a cliff head-first, I said "right now".
  Oh God, what had I done, I thought after a few minutes... The manager lead me around the place which was part inside restaurant and part outside "hot shoppes"...
 
  There was a large counter where "car hops" picked up their food to bring out to the waiting cars. On the other side of the counter I could see a huge kitchen area where "colored" cooks were busy preparing the food. They all seemed angry, bitter and downright nasty when they threw the food, on paper plates and containers onto the counter. The servers, about five of them, were all clean-cut looking young white men and women. The manager had told me that I would only get 35 cents pay per hour, but that I would receive plenty of "tips" to make up for the low pay. I didn't even know what "tips" were and didn't care much about the money either. Somehow, I had my first job and I was happy to be working....
  Anyways, we, the car hops, had to add all the dressings and stuff, like mustard, ketchup, tomatoes and onions... to the food thrown on the counter by the cooks. We were assigned service areas by numbers on the poles outside. I can't remember every detail, but I think that I had about ten or so numbers in my area. When orders were thrown on the counter, there was a bill, a slip of paper with the items and details of the order and a number on it. That number indicated where the order belonged. If it was one of my numbers, I had to arrange everything on a serving tray, add the trimmings and fill huge paper cups with ice and whatever kind of soda was ordered. It was all rush, rush and I had to be quick and precise in every move I made,-especially during breakfast and lunch times.      Often the black cooks, with strong southern accents, would shout something to me and I couldn't understand a word they said. This made them furious and they would scream at me like I was an idiot. Since most employees knew quickly that I was a very recent arrival in this country, I am quite sure that the colored cooks knew this also, but just didn't give a hoot and were just out to make my life as miserable as possible... Those were certainly not the same people whom I had come to love and respect after the war in Borken and Berlin!!!
  To be fair, I must mention that later on, after working there for a while, I learned that those black cooks were angry because they had to sweat for low wages in the hot kitchen and weren't allowed to work as "car hops" because of their race. And they were especially angry that I, a recent white immigrant, was hired for that job while they had no chance whatsoever to get in on the "tips" and out of the kitchen. How could I have known? Nevertheless, despite this obvious injustice, I can't see myself treating anybody, no matter what the circumstances are, like they treated me. This experience served as my introduction to "Race 101" in America, and strongly contributed to my move, when the chance came, away from the South, to Danbury, Connecticut.

  Upon leaving me at the "Hot Shoppe", Pastor Schumann had told me that I could easily walk home to mama Grey's by following a industrial kind of road which cut right through to where I lived. So at five, when the other shift came in and I was told by the manager that he was very happy with me and to be back for eight am the next day, I made my way "home". I had already made five dollars in change for tips and was very happy about that. In today's money this would probably be about 40 to 50 dollars.... Sweating profusely in the hot evening sun, wearing the long black pants and white shirt which I had been given at the "Hot Shoppe", I must have been a sight to behold. There was nobody else walking and, thank God, there was very little traffic on that industrial road, so only a few people would gawk at me in my "over-dressed" looking clothes. It took me about thirty minutes to find mama Grey's house and I was happy to cool down in her air-conditioned kitchen. Pastor Schumann had already called her and told her about my new job and she was happy that I had an income. After supper, which was pork-chops, potatoes and broccoli, she said that we would drive to the Government Department store, which was strictly for government employees, like a PX for soldiers. I needed more black pants and white shirts, she said, because I had only received one set from the "hot-shoppes".

  So we went. I had to squeeze into the tiny back seat of her Plymouth and she and Martha were up in front with mama Grey driving the ancient vehicle. We must have been some picture, because I noticed people passing us and laughing as we drove to Alexandria where the store was located. The store was a huge department store, bigger even then Karstadt or KaDeWe in Berlin. Martha had to show her ID at the entrance and mama Grey and I were admitted as her guests. Mama Grey and Martha both helped me pick some black pants which might fit me and I tried them on in the dressing room. My American size turned out to be a 27 inch waist and 30 inch inseam. The pants and shirts were cheap, like three dollars a pair of pants and two dollars per shirt. I paid from my savings which I carried with me in my wallet. After looking around the store for a while I ended up in the book-section and bought a book which promised to teach high-school subjects so one could pass the G.E.D., whatever that was....

Postcard from Pete

  I had worked at the "hot shoppes", which was a Marriott owned operation, for about one month, when, after returning from work, mama Grey handed me a postcard from Danbury, Connecticut. Of course I knew immediately that it had come from Pete Wagner. He wrote me that he had just arrived in Danbury and that, so far, he loved America. At the end of his note, he wrote, "hope to meet up with you sometime in the future"....
  If it hadn't been for the downright abusive acting colored cooks, I would have loved my job at the "hot shoppes". The tips, I sure learned quickly what that meant, were incredible. Some days I made as much as $30 in tips and hardly ever less then ten. Thirty dollars was a lot of money in those days, and I would probably worked there for many years, if Pete hadn't written his postcard to me. But due to the racial tension I felt all around me, I was more than ready to get away from it all, at least for a while, by visiting Pete in Danbury. Which idea, at first, only sneaked gently into my mind, to grow stronger and stronger as time went on. Knowing that Pastor Schuman and mama Grey wouldn't approve, I approached the subject cautiously. Asking mama Grey about how far it was to get to Danbury if I would want to visit Pete, she told me that it was probably about six to eight hours by bus.... Asking her how much it would cost to go there, she told me that it wouldn't be all that much and that perhaps going to the Trailways bus terminal in downtown Washington and getting the correct amount quoted, would be my best bet. This sounded to me like mama Grey had given me her "blessing" to visit Pete.... And that is what I really had wanted to hear...

  So, on my next day off from the "hot shoppes", I took the city bus from Arlington to Washington DC... A trip which I had taken many times before on my various day's off. In fact I had gotten to know Washington quite well, by walking all over this city from downtown to Georgetown and even to the National Cathedral... I had visited the Smithsonian, the National Arts Museum and all the well known places of interest, like the Lincoln Memorial...
  The Trailways bus station was a shabby looking, seedy place in downtown Washington. I had seen it before many times, as it was close to the place from where I had caught the bus to return to Arlington. At the desk, a friendly male clerk told me that in order to get to Danbury I had to catch a bus to the New York City bus terminal, change buses there and continue on the "Providence Arrow Line" to Danbury. The cost of all this was around $30 round-trip (I believe) and the time involved, was about six hours....  Buying a round-trip ticket for the coming week on my next day off, I only hoped that my boss at the "hot-shoppes" would grant me the time off necessary to visit Pete for a few days.

  Back at work, the next day, I asked the "hot shoppe" manager for a week off, explaining that a friend from Germany had just arrived in Danbury, Connecticut and that I would really like to visit him there. He graciously gave me the time off as "unpaid emergency leave" and I was happy. Having still a few more days to work, I would make some more money to save. As I mentioned before, many of the my customers were soldiers working at the Pentagon who ranked from sergeants to colonels. Most of them had served some time in Germany and some of them had even been stationed in Berlin. Immediately recognizing my German accent, they inevitably would ask me where I was from. When I said Berlin, Germany, most of them would smile happily and tell me how much they had enjoyed their time there. Sometimes they would ask me how I had ended up at the "hot shoppes" and I would quickly tell them my story... Wishing me all the best in America and welcoming me here, they would often reach "deep down" into their wallet's interior and hand me a ten or even twenty dollar bill as "tip" and "welcome gift", I presume. What wonderful people these American soldiers were in those days! Reciprocating to me, for what they had experienced in Germany during their often extensive tours of duty, was more than anybody could even dream of... But they did, not only once, but many times over....

  
I have stolen this picture and article below it from the internet:
  http://www.bronxace.homestead.com/ArlingtonMemories2.html
Please visit this wonderful website of Arlington memories
and view many more pictures there.   
       
 

1957 - Easter Sunday at the new 14th Street Bridge Marriott hotel -- a big, sprawling complex.

    Book II       

       Part I - Working at Fairfield Hills(State) Hospital - How I came to Fairfield Hills Hospital -
   - Summation of my immigration story -
Arlington, Virginia and Washington, DC - Meeting Pete in Danbury, Connecticut - Mrs. Morrell's
     Guest House - Working at Danbury Hospital - Hearing about Fairfield Hills Hospital - Getting a job there - Mrs. Adams
       and Mrs. Schwaller - Central Linen Room -

 
     Return to Page I and Index