This is the "Reichstags" building with an immobilized tank in front

                  
                 Homeless people in the streets of Berlin

Berlin was in ruins when we arrived there after an endless seeming railroad ride in compartments with wooden seats, overcrowded, smelly with its load of refugees, displaced persons (DP's) which consisted mostly of women with crying children. I thought it quite fascinating to walk through Berlin's ruins, with tanks and other war equipment all over the streets and didn't mind at all that we had arrived in a hell of hopelessness, poverty and despair. 

My grandparent's bicycle store was in Neukoelln, Sonnenallee 208. Behind the store, was their "parterre" apartment which was unbelievably cold, damp and small. I slept on top of a bunk bed in a room just big enough to hold this metal contraption and my mother slept below. The reason it was so cold in this apartment was, that coal which was needed for the one "Kachelofen" that was supposed to heat the entire apartment, was a rare and very expensive commodity in 1947 and my grandparents could only manage to get enough coal to use on "special days." But, even with plenty of coal, this one and only stove which was located in the living room, could not possibly heat the entire place.

Thus my grandfather put up a cast iron stove in the shop itself and this little monster burned anything, throwing out wonderful, radiant heat in abundance. He used partitions to give this area, where the stove was located, a sense of privacy where customers, of which there weren't exactly plenty, in those days, couldn't see us as we were sitting there around this wonderful source of warmth and togetherness. My grandfather, Hermann Becker, was a big man of a slow and stoic disposition, which drove my grandmother, Marie Becker, absolutely crazy. On top of this, he was deaf in one ear and his right arm was somewhat lame which came from a gunshot wound to his upper arm many years ago. This gunshot wound was the reason that he had become a "Socialist" in the early part of the century. As I gathered from various sources, mother, aunts and uncles, my grandfather as a young man, after apprenticeship as a mechanic, got a job as a chauffeur for a rich industrialist. There he lived in the rich people's house and took also care of odd jobs. One day, the rich people and some of their friends with the aristocratic "von" in front of their names, were out on a hunt and my grandfather was supposed to pick some mushrooms in the surrounding forest. As he bend down to pick some, a shot was fired and hit him in the arm. The people he worked for apparently took care of his injury without an adequate follow up by a doctor in order to save money. Thus his arm didn't heal the way it should have and became something like seventy percent paralyzed. He could move his arm only with a conscious effort and his hand was frozen in a position which made it look a little like a claw. Needless to say, he didn't receive any financial aid or support from these people or the government because, since they were wealthy and "titled" aristocrats, and he was only a "commoner," and had no legal rights under the Kaiser's government. This experience led him into the fold of the Socialist Party, which was actually called SPD, Socialdemocratische Partei Deutschlands. Being of a stoic disposition, he never went further than that. As he couldn't identify with the more radical elements and movements of his days, like the Communists, Trotskyites or Anarchists. He was true to the SPD though until the day he died in 1969 and subscribed faithfully to their daily newspaper in Berlin called "Vorwaerts," which means "Forward," through all the years it was published, which means, that this paper was forbidden to publish during the years of Hitler's regime. My grandfather hated and despised the nazis, because to him, they represented the same nationalism and elitism which was part of the Kaiser's time and had caused him so much suffering.

My grandmother was of a fiery, temperamental disposition. Looking like a "gypsy," with black hair and olive skin, she was quick and easily angered. Her hand would lash-out before her mind could tell her not to. My mother hated her and tried to avoid her whenever possible because of the abuse she suffered as a child and even young woman from her explosive temper which often resulted in physical and mental "abuse." Yet I liked her very much and I developed a way to deal with her which amused her and often made her laugh. Since I was quick tempered also, even as a young boy, it seems that I instinctively understood her problem of being surrounded by slow and plotting people which every once and a while would lead her to emotionally explode in a temper tantrum. She loved it when I made fun of her and called her "theatralisch." I probably meant "theatrical," and still don't know if there even is such a word as "theatralisch." But seeing her amused reaction I from then on knew how to remain on her good side, even when an emotional outburst from her frightened everybody else. She and I formed a true friendship based on our similar emotional make-up and mutual understanding. She often took me to the movies, the matinee showings, later on when movie theaters popped up all over the neighborhood, and send me every afternoon to the nearby bakery to get cheap baked goods like "Schnecken, Amerikaner and Pfannkuchen." We would then sit around the stove in the store and eat these "delicatessens" while listening to the radio. But I am getting ahead of my story, since this all came later when things improved and we were able to get food and coals freely.

My grandmother seated with my aunt Gerda on her lap and my mother standing on a foot-stool behind her. On the left is my uncle Harry who was a superb aircraft mechanic who was last seen being marched by Russians in a column of prisoners through Berlin to disappear forever. He was neither involved with the nazis, nor even a member of the military since he had a heart problem. We have never heard from him again nor have the Soviets admitted his existence. His only crime was that he was relatively young, German and at the wrong place at the wrong time. When will the allied victors ever admit the cruelties and murders committed by these "liberators"? Since millions of innocent Germans were abducted to forced labor in the Soviet Union, France and even England, and with those unfortunates who were enslaved by the Soviets to never be heard of again, when will there ever be an outcry or even official acknowledgement in their behalf? But German lives came cheap in those days and the deceitful government plutocrats of the Federal Republic are either unwilling or too immersed in kissing up to these former allied criminals to make waves. They much rather pay out huge sums of money to foreigners who claim to have been forced to work as "slaves" in German factories and constructions during wartime than ever to investigate and speak-up for the millions of Germans who were not only abducted, but never returned alive from their Soviet captors.

              After we arrived in Berlin to live with my grandparents, my mother had to register me with the nearby school which was the "Hertzberg Schule." This was devastating to me because I hated school ever since my experience of the multiple classroom and its chaos in Borken. Although this school had individual class rooms for every grade, I still didn't like the inhibiting environment and the "forced" learning even under these different circumstances. Many of my class-mates seemed so unruly and violent, which made me feel like I definitely didn't belong there with these stupid acting boys. In those days boys and girls were taught in separate class rooms and were even segregated by separate school entrances. We saw and could possibly interact with the girls only during the main break out in the school-yard. But we didn't even do that because of peer pressure and uneasiness with girls. The boys who would have wanted to play with the girls didn't dare to because the rest of the boys, the bullies and rowdies, would have made their school days a living hell of teasing and beatings. Thus we even played in segregated areas. I often secretly glanced over to where the girls were grouped admiring their gracefulness and beauty. Awestruck by their appearance, my heart pounded faster and faster and it seemed like a desire to be with them would drive me insane. On the other hand though I had to pretend that girls were nothing more then laughable and stupid "Mieken." 

Our teacher was "Fraulein" Ziegle who was a wonderful and generous person. She inspired me and I studied and did my homework with extra care. So I did quite well in school despite my unhappiness with many of my class mates. I also made some lasting friends. There was Joachim Bandmann, who lived close to me and was a comfortable boy to hang-out with. We remained friends through all of our school years and beyond until I left Germany for the USA in 1963. Then there was Eberhard Galinski, a Jewish boy, whom I liked very much because of his seriousness and intelligence and who also didn't seem to fit in with the general crowd in our class room. Juergen Lehmann and Herbert (I can't remember his last name) were also part of our group as well as some others whose names I have forgotten. This was second grade in 1948 and I realized that I had a talent for drawing and writing essays. I would often be called to the blackboard to draw something and everybody seemed to be in "awe" of my talent. This gave me a boost in self-esteem which I needed very badly because I had developed a case of "shyness" that became almost debilitating. I don't know what it's cause might have been, but I became so painfully introverted and afraid of everybody that it robbed me of many opportunities even throughout my later life. It is not that I was afraid of others physically, but that I was afraid of what they thought about me. Feeling so inferior not because of the awareness of my own shortcomings, but because I always felt so much out of place. I just "knew" that I didn't belong where I was and with the people I was thrown-in with, that I became deathly afraid that they would detect this and ridicule me as only children can. One factor seemed to be that I could always sense what other's thought about me and themselves. Which means, perhaps, that I could sense their inner pain and their deceptive acts of violent behavior to cover it up. I felt their pain and was moved by their struggle to cover it up into such an emotional turmoil that I could only react the way any child can react in such a situation, by withdrawing and covering up my own vulnerability by whatever means possible. Since violence was abhorrent to me, I chose to withdraw from my surroundings as much as I could. Seeing myself as a "freak," mentally and physically I was convinced that I was crazy and that I looked so ugly with a long nose and too large head that others must surely be repulsed by me in every way. Of course it didn't help that I saw visions of people and landscapes which quite often shocked the hell out of me and that I could "read" other's intentions and secrets. But of this I shall talk more later.

       
          Here is my third grade class in 1948.
            I attended (reluctantly) the "Hertzbergschule" located at the Hertzbergstrasse in Berlin-Neukoelln. Even after 53 years I still remember a few names. Our teacher was "Fraulein" Ziegle,  name), next to me is Gerhart (Nettie)....  you see some kids carrying aluminum pots (Essentoepfe) for which got us through the worst hunger of those grim days. war heroes and honor our fallen dead. Is there anyone out there who went to school with me?

The one prevailing factor of my existence in this world then and even now is, that I felt completely alone and out of place, wherever I went. And it was, nor is, never because I feel myself "better" than others or more enlightened. It seems to be quite the opposite. I feel so inferior to the ways of the world and am barely able to cope with life and the demands of existence as a man, husband and father on this planet. Beginning with the memory of my first conscious thought as a toddler, that I didn't want to be here again, right to today, where I still have a difficult time being part of what life demands of me to be, I feel as an "outsider," as a "stranger in a strange land." 

Sometimes we would go to the garden plot my grandparent's had, not too far away in Baumschulenweg, where we could enjoy sitting around in the sunshine and eating some of the fruits and vegetables which they had planted. We would walk there in about 30 minutes, passing through the border into East Berlin which was only visible in those days by the presence of a large white signs with writing in three languages on it, informing people that they are now leaving the American sector. In later years this border would become more and more difficult to cross. At first there were east German police there, called "Volkspolizei," who could and would stop people randomly and ask them for identification papers and look through their handbags or other belongings. Later these border points became more secured by narrowing the road with bob wire. We were always respectful and uneasy with police, even in West-Berlin, but these young East-German cops were feared by everybody, not the least because of their ability to arrest people and put them away somewhere in East Germany and the allied propaganda which, through newspapers and radio, constantly reminded us of our vulnerability when crossing the border. Still, the joy of being out in nature was more persuasive than our fear of the East German border police and we went there as often as we could. 

Thus it happened, that while we were at the garden, I felt suddenly like the whole world was starting to spin around me and that I had no strength at all. All I could do is, drop to the ground unable to move feeling sick all over and frightened beyond description. I don't remember much of what went on with my mother and grandparents, except that they found a little cart with four metal wheels into which they squeezed me somehow, pulling me back towards Neukoelln and Kreutzberg to the Urban Krankenhaus, the nearest hospital, which probably took about 50 minutes. I was so weak that I couldn't even talk nor move my limbs but I still remember the bumpy cart and the pain every cobblestone caused me as they dragged me along in the cart. I remember a huge room at the hospital where I was x-rayed and where also lots of other people were treated. It was cold in there and I was shaking all over. I had a high fever and was delirious and so very afraid of everything around me. Then they took me on a stretcher across the street to a wooden barracks-like building which was the "children's hospital." No regular sized bed was available and I had to be placed into a crib for babies for which I was, naturally, too big. So I had to be placed on my side with my legs bent. After a few days a regular bed became vacant and I could move into my new, much more comfortable, lodging. It turns out that I hat contracted Tuberculosis of the "Hilusdruesen," a term which still baffles me. But this is what it was and after a few weeks I began feeling much better. The food was excellent by the standards of 1948 and I still remember the joy of eating soup with whole, canned, American potatoes which I can taste with pleasure even to this day. We had six of us in our room and developed quite a camaraderie and friendship between us. All in all I think that I spent at least nine month there having a great time playing with car models from America and other games and eating such wonderful food. My teacher, Fraulein Ziegle, came to see me almost every other day bringing with her such wonderful gifts as Wrigley's gum, candy and chocolates as well as toys from America. She had relatives in the United States and received packages with these goodies on a regular basis. Thus she was able to bring me these wonderful gifts at a time when one could get such things only on the black-market at a cost the average person couldn't possibly afford. I clearly remember the first time when I was allowed to get out of bed after more than six month in the hospital. Two nurses were holding me up and I thought that I had lost my ability to stand up and walk. But after more of those attempts and exercises I gradually regained some strength in my legs and was able to slowly walk again. 

When I returned after nine month to the damp, cold and cramped home of my grandparents, I wasn't exactly happy. At the hospital I had so much attention and friendship with the other boys in my room, that coming "home" was a very depressing experience.

      Black market in post war Berlin