Chapter 1: Reminiscences at the Station in Munich

1. The Platform Phenomenon

An event that took place in an underground-train station in Munich’s inner city had far reaching effects on the life of three persons: Peppi Stölzl – who rose thereafter in the world, became Sir Joseph-Dieter, Freiherr von Stölzenfeld – my late father, Robert Berger, known to friends as ‘Tommy’, and myself, Peter Berger, a mendicant professor who eventually settled in Singapore but travelled from time to time to London where eventually I met Peppi,

The station, which had been upgraded after Germany’s capitulation at the end of World War II was lauded on both sides of the Atlantic (except by the envious French). There was, however, one snag. The station served as an interchange for commuters travelling to the west and to the airport. In consequence, the platform was overcrowded during rush hours: disembarking passengers often collided with commuters attempting to board. The records of the First Aid Room, listing black eyes, broken collar bones, crushed noses and ‘abdominal injuries’, bore witness to the strong German tendency to fight for right.

Something had to be done. Eventually, a Committee came up with a plan. An elevated podium was erected in the centre of the platform. As rush hour began, the Station Master – wearing a Bavarian helmet and the sparkling uniform of Frederick the Great’s Guards – climbed up to the podium. When the doors of an incoming train opened, he shouted “Raus” (meaning “get out”), whereupon the alighting passengers leapt onto the platform. He then yelled “Rein” (“get in”), signifying that embarking passengers ought to board.

The system suffered an initial hitch. Due to background noise, the passengers could not hear the Station Master’s commands. Occasionally some of them climbed in when the Station Master had actually yelled “Raus”. The ensuing skirmishes were on the fierce side because each party felt he was in the right.

The Committee, thereupon, refined the procedure by adding ‘visual stimuli’ (meaning, in plain English, ‘hand signals’) to the oral commands. This upgraded system proved a great success. The passengers seeking to disembark obeyed the beckoning hand whilst those congregating on the platform waited patiently for the verbal command. After some three months the City Council granted the Station Master a substantial pay rise and awarded him a medal. By then the venture had become something of a phenomenon: travellers from all over Germany, as well as tourists from places as remote as Kathmandu and the Tierra del Fuego, flocked to Munich to witness the proceedings.

2. Reunion of Old Friends

My late father, Tommy, was an ardent student of modern enterprise. When business took him to Munich, he arrived one bright morning at the platform just in time to watch the Station Master mounting his podium with a dignified air. Then, as the Station Master turned around, Dad gave a slight start. The grand man on the stage was none other than Peppi – his old classmate and bosom pal of his youth in Vienna. For a moment Dad stood still; then their eyes met, and, despite the approaching train, Peppi managed to signal that they should meet as soon as the session was over.

“So you’re back, Tommy,” Peppi grinned, as he joined Dad after autographing a number of notebooks and cards proffered by members of the public.

“I am. And you, Peppi, really look splendid in your uniform.”

“Here, just let me get out of this outfit,” said Peppi when they arrived in his office. “Thirteen years have passed since we last saw one another. It’s good to see you again and to know that you, too, came through.”

They embraced – the way Viennese men often did in the old days – and for a few minutes simply sat together in silence in the compact room. For some reason, neither of them could find the right words to express his feelings, although each knew what his friend wanted to say.

“Tommy,” Peppi broke the silence, “shall we go to the Kneipe [pub] around the corner? We have a lot to talk about. I kept hoping you found a safe place – where there was no madness.”

“I sensed you’d be alright, Peppi,” said Dad as they stepped out of the station. “You fought a whole year in the trenches in 1917 but came out unscathed. Few did. I had a few close shaves in my one month as a trainee officer on the Western Front in 1918. But you were bullet-proof. You’ve been lucky all your life! The only time I feared for you was when the Russians overran Vienna in 1944.”

“I was in Munich by then. I got out of Vienna as soon as Hitler declared War on the Soviet Union.”

3. From the Trenches Back to the Prater

The Kneipe was empty though not desolate. The pinewood furniture, the colourful posters on the walls and the array of bottles along the bar gave the premises an intimate atmosphere. A sleepy waitress came over to take their orders. Her welcoming smile showed that Peppi was a regular. Dad asked for a coffee.

Dad watched with mild disapproval as Peppi stirred a nip of clear liquid into his draught beer. He used to worry about Peppi’s drinking habit in the old days and, despite the years of separation, once again felt the urge to protect him.

“Kirsch or Vodka?” he asked.

“Slivovitz,” replied Peppi, unperturbed. “Just as I had it in the Prater. Slivovitz is good for you; in moderation, of course. So is your drink, Tommy: coffee with rum kept us going in the trenches, through all that snow! In WWI, I was the orderly of my troop. I used to sneak out to get my mates Slivovitz, Kirsch or any Schnapps I could lay my hands on. We needed it even more than food: just to help us get through the stench, the freezing cold and the death all around us.”

“And to think that after that senseless butchery they had to start it all over again.”

“People never learn; especially not the politicians. But enough of that, Tommy. Come on – have another coffee, but this time with rum.”

Both felt more at ease after the second round. Over the third they began to reminisce. Soon they were sniggering about the pranks they had played in their school days in Otakring, the then working-class district of Vienna. After a while they even reverted to the old Otakring slang – Viennese Cockney.

They laughed when Dad recalled the lesson they had taught the theology teacher. The fellow used his ruler in lieu of a rod whenever any pupil asked an unorthodox, let alone a provocative, question. He was all the more hated because he assigned them boring homework and, in addition, forced them to learn long and boring religious texts by heart.

Having suffered the man’s tantrums patiently for months, Dad and Peppi decided to curb his enthusiasm. One day, the teacher explained that God wanted all men to worship Him. Dad thereupon wanted to know why He did not reveal himself regularly. Would this not be simpler and more productive – Dad asked with an ingratiating smile – than to expect weak humanity to discover the way on its own? Dad confessed that the answer eluded him but trusted that the ‘Herr Professor’ would shed light on the problem.

Charmed by Dad’s sweet manner and savouring the respectful form of his address, the theology teacher tried hard to grapple with the question that had baffled philosophers through the ages. Beads of sweat soon formed on his brow. While this debacle was in progress, Peppi crept between the benches and tied the teacher’s shoelaces together. He then retreated to his seat and signalled ‘mission accomplished’; whereupon Dad asked in a suddenly aggressive voice:

“But if God is perfect, why can’t he instil in us the wish to follow his commands out of love? Or isn’t He all that perfect after all?”

“That’s blasphemy!” yelled the teacher, leaping to his feet, rod-ruler in hand – only to land on his nose.

4. Escapes during the Nazi era. Peppi’s survival and union with Helga.

“They were wonderful days,” Peppi sighed. “But tell me, Tommy, how is Dora? She, too, came through, didn’t she? And how is your Peter’le? He must be about 17.”

Peppi listened attentively to the story of my family’s escape from Europe just before the beginning of WWII. “It’s too bad that your Peter’le has asthma; but then, Tommy, you always had a weak chest. Still, the main thing is the three of you are together!”

“Yes,” nodded Dad. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he added, “and we have to thank you, Josef. You risked your life in 1938, when you smuggled that briefcase with the ‘black’ money across to me just before the boarding call. And you took another risk when you sneaked Dora’s jewellery through the airport customs.”

“You would have done the same for me, Tommy.”

“I certainly hope so. But you can’t tell until you face the music. I might have been too scared.”

“I was frightened,” said Peppi thoughtfully. “But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you down. I wasn’t so determined when it came to others.”

For a few moments both kept their counsel. Dad recalled the day Peppi’s father, a seasoned tram driver, was run over by a tram which was being driven out of the depot by one of his own comrades. An autopsy revealed that Heinrich Stölzl had been inebriated at the time of the accident. Vienna City Council’s reaction was stern. Peppi’s mother was denied a pension. Tram drivers had been cautioned about the dire consequences of drinking at work and the city’s elders hoped their severity would serve as a warning to other offenders.

Peppi Stölzl had to leave his professional training school, the Fachschule, and look for work. Turning down the City Council’s offer of a job on the trams, his first job was as an usher in the hell train at the Prater (Vienna’s Loonapark). A ‘friendly giant’ like him was just right for the job! He then worked as a waiter in a Heuriger [wine garden] in Grinzing. Later on he got a job in a business firm.

Proving himself to be a diligent worker, Peppi was soon made the supervisor and, after a few years, was left in charge of the thriving business. By the time of the Anschluß [Austria’s annexation by Nazi Germany] he had been made junior partner, with the ageing boss hinting that, in due course, the firm’s name would be changed to ‘Rosenberg & Stölzl’. Effectively, Peppi had risen from the ranks of the working-class to the Mittelstand [the bourgeoisie].

“What happened to Roenberg?” asked Dad.

“He was taken in custody. Nobody saw him again. The new ‘Aryan’ owner of the shop asked me to stay on as second-in-command to his brother-in-law. I refused, of course.”

“What did you do?”

To start with, Peppi sought and, once again, obtained employment at the Prater. He was in fact too old for this type of job, but most young men had been conscripted. Quite apart from this, his army bearing and tall figure stood him in good stead.

A few months later, he accepted the post of chief waiter in a popular restaurant. Before long, he became the go-between for the owners of local restaurants and provincial farmers anxious to sell their meagre supplies at the best black market prices obtainable. In this way, Peppi had become wealthy.

Then, unexpectedly, Hitler declared war on the Soviet Union and opened the Eastern front. In less than two weeks, Peppi packed his suitcases, sold his belongings, converted his cash into gold coins and moved to Salzburg.

“The German pundits hoped for victory,” he told Dad. “I knew they deluded themselves. Napoleon had his own version of Blitzkrieg; and look how he lost his army in Moscow. No, Tommy, I never forgot what happened to my own troop in the winter of 1917. The very idea that one single nation could fight and win on two major fronts without enough petrol or adequate supply lines was madness!”

“But what was the point in your running off to Salzburg?”

“I knew the Nazis would have to conscript middle aged men like me and that they would start in Vienna. So, I escaped before it was too late.”

Upon arriving in Salzburg, Peppi was assisted by an old flame from his Prater days, who had opened a hairdressing salon near the Mozarteum. To start with, she dyed his hair grey. She then trained him to walk like an aged man. When Peppi had grown accustomed to his new guise, she secured him the post of usher in a nightclub and found him a room in a pension run by a discreet landlord.

Peppi had intended to spend the rest of the War in Salzburg. Fortuna had other plans for him. Early in 1943, a soldier who returned to Salzburg after being wounded in North Africa, discovered that his wife was carrying on with Peppi. As he had nothing better to do, he spied on his rival. Soon he realised that Peppi was considerably younger than he strove to appear. Peppi, who perceived the cuckold’s dark glances, became wary. Then, one evening, the man hurled the accusation of ‘draft dodger’ at him. Early next morning, Peppi got a call from the hairdresser, urging him to clear out before it was too late.

Peppi Stölzl did not wait. Once again he packed his things and rushed to the railway station, stopping only at the bank to empty his safe. Anxiously he boarded the first train, heaving a sigh of relief when he disembarked unnoticed in Munich. To avoid identification, he rinsed the dye out of his hair. A glance in the mirror made him gasp. His once lustrous black shock of hair was ingrained with streaks of salt and pepper. Sombrely, Peppi reflected that, whilst his luck was still holding, time had not stood still.

The pace in the large town differed from the congenial tempo of provincial Salzburg. Despite the constraints imposed by WWII, the Burghers of Munich were rushing about busily. Peppi felt galvanised and, in addition, kept his ear to the ground. Within one week of his arrival, he came to know of the reverses in North Africa and the ‘strategic withdrawals’ on the Eastern front. Shortly thereafter, he had his first glimpse of the trains carrying wounded soldiers back from the battlefields. To his own surprise, Peppi Stölzl felt the call of duty. Discarding the brace he had placed over his right knee to simulate a limp; he gave up his well-paid night-receptionist job in a shady establishment and joined the militia as a medical corps volunteer. In due course he was assigned to the surgical ward of the general hospital.

“I couldn’t do much for them. We had no proper medicines, insufficient beds, and very few doctors. Often, all I could do for a dying soldier was to hold his hand and try to comfort him. Many died of shock after clumsy amputations. It was butchery, Tommy, plain butchery!”

“Was it worse than the trenches in 1917?”

“It was indeed. You see, when you got your wounded comrade onto the orderly’s stretcher, or into the first aid tent at the front, you thought he’d get help. If he was conscious, he, too, was still hoping. Here in Munich, after the harassing ride on the train, the wounded were beyond hope. Most of them could do no more than make feeble cries for help.”

“Help from above?” asked Dad.

“No, Tommy. They were asking for their Mutter; and some called out the name of a woman – a wife, a fiancée or a girlfriend. Very few, Tommy, very few called God or prayed. Are you surprised?”

Shrugging his shoulders Dad said soberly, “Can’t say I am.”

“I remember one boy,” Peppi went on, “a lad young enough to be my son. He had been shot through his stomach and was dying right in front of my eyes. He begged me to give him water. When I told him it would kill him instantly, he said: ‘better so; just give it to me. Hell can’t be worse than this!’ And I knew he meant it.”

“What did you do?” asked Dad.

“I continued to wipe his brow with a wet cloth and, from time to time, moistened his lips. After a while he dozed off but continued to breathe for an hour or so. He went without opening his eyes again.”

“Poor boy.”

“We had many like him. Young men dying without having lived. And for what, Tommy, for what? For Lebensraum; for the blasted Vaterland; or to satisfy the ravings of a uniformed madman?”

“A shameful mess brought about by greed, stupidity and blindness. And it’s not as if anybody stood to gain from it,” agreed Dad.

“Nobody except the carpetbaggers. But, you know, for me Munich was a turning point: it was there, in that hospital, that I met Helga.”

Helga Gießen was a primary school teacher by training. In 1943 she enrolled in a crash course on nursing, completed it with ‘extraordinary distinction’ and promptly enlisted in Munich’s general hospital. Although Peppi was her senior by some twenty years, she soon fell in love with the kind-hearted giant who toiled day and night to comfort the wounded soldiers. Initially, Peppi prevaricated, pretending not to notice his new colleague’s tender glances. Common sense whispered that he was too old for her. And experience told him that it was best to avoid women with serious intentions. A smart man could have fun yet preserve his freedom.

A girl less determined than Helga would have given up. Her pride would have dictated a dignified retreat. Helga was above such pettiness. Concluding that Peppi was shy, she continued to besiege him. After a while, Peppi responded. Quite naturally, he was flattered by the persistent attentions showered on him by this young and upright girl. In addition, an inner voice murmured that he was into his forties, had never experienced a lasting relationship with a seriously minded woman and was in danger of having to walk the rest of the of his life on his own.

When, at long last, Peppi invited young Helga to the local opera, she was up to the occasion. Far from displaying maidenly reserve, she accepted gladly and suggested that they have supper at her place after the show. Peppi opened his eyes wide, gulped and smiled graciously. After three months they were engaged. Early in 1945, in defiance of the persistent bombing raids and the general gloom that pervaded Germany, they were married. To his own amazement, Peppi suggested that the ceremony be held in Helga’s Protestant church.

“Helga is a believer, Tommy. And, as you well know, I am a non-practising Roman Catholic. So, I went her way. It was the right thing do, wasn’t it?”

“As long as you went her way willingly. But the main point, Peppi: you are happy with Helga, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed. You see, Helga is not a beauty. She doesn’t have a perfect figure and isn’t the best dresser in the world. And she isn’t chic or playful. But she has character and personality and is a strong and dependable woman. I trust her fully; and I know where I stand with her.”

“So, she is a good wife. Once again, Peppi, you fell on your feet!”

“I did, Tommy, so I did.”

Peppi hesitated for a moment and then produced a photograph from his wallet. Dad saw a small woman in her early thirties, wearing a plain skirt and blouse. Her high brow, aquiline nose and sharp features matched her conservative hairstyle and firm mouth. A little girl sat on her lap and smiled into the camera.

“This is Lucy,” Peppi’s face relaxed into a smile. “We thought it best not to have children until the end of the War. Next year Lucy will start school.”

“Is she your only one?”

“Our second will arrive in some six or seven weeks. Helga is having a tough time and so it’s bound to be our last one: never mind if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“I hope everything will be fine,” said Dad.

“Of course it will! Helga’s a tough girl. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself. But I can see how much it’s taken out of her.”

“Is she going back to work later on?”

“She is indeed. But not to the hospital. Helga says that we have to make sure the next generation won’t repeat our mistakes. She wants to go back to her old school. She’ll help to ‘forge the unformed conscience of our race’.”

“What a pungent line,” said Dad reflectively.

“Some Irish novelist wrote words to this effect. Helga was very impressed with his book, all about a young author in Dublin. I couldn’t make head or tail of it.”

Obviously, Peppi had not read James Joyce during his youth in Vienna. Neither had Dad! Vienna had been as inward-looking as other European centres of the day and just as blissfully unaware of its insularity.

For a while, both Dad and Peppi were lost in their respective thoughts. Peppi’s reflections centred on the old days. Dad meandered through Peppi’s odyssey. He was relieved that, as often before, his friend had brought his ship home. It was as if some invisible hand kept sheltering him, just as it did when others were felled by the enemy’s bullets during the dreadful months in the trenches toward the end of WWI.

“And when did you become station master?” Dad broke the silence.

Snapping back into the real world, Peppi signalled to the waitress. After, she had placed another cup of coffee in front of Dad and a beer chaser within Peppi’s reach, he resumed his story.

When WWII was over, Peppi gave up his job in the hospital and opened a traditional Bavarian beer garden. The takings, though, were meagre. Frequently, patrons had just one tankard, sipping at it slowly and appreciatively.

To improve his financial position, Peppi opened the “garden” only in the evening and looked for an extra job to occupy him during daytime. Once again he drifted from one post to another. It was by chance that he was engaged by the contractor in charge of the construction work at the underground station. Peppi was too old for this type of work; but his powerful frame and his army bearings impressed the clerk in charge of recruitment. Peppi excelled. After two months, he was made the foreman of his gang. When the renovation was complete, he was appointed station master.

“So now you know my entire story, Tommy,” said Peppi with a smile.

“Do you still run the beer garden?”

“Of course, and it’s picking up!”

“I see. But don’t you think you should begin to take things easy? You are two years older than me – that makes you 53!”

“Thanks for reminding me,” grinned Peppi. “But, Tommy, I got married late in life; and I want my kids to have good prospects. I owe it to them. So, I’d better work hard while I still have the strength to do so. I hope that Lucy will go to university. Wouldn’t it be nice to send her to Heidelberg or Göttingen?”

“But you mustn’t kill yourself in the process, Peppi!”

“I won’t – as long as I have enough Slivovitz … Yes, yes, Tommy, in moderation, of course … As you can see, I’m still as fit as I was in the old days.”

The clock of the Kneipe chimed eleven o’clock. Coughing apologetically, Peppi said he had to return to the station. His face brightened when Dad suggested they remain in touch.