Postwar Survivor: Journey To America, #1

By Horst Christian

Based on a true story.

Germany, October 1945. World War II has come to an end and after narrowly surviving the fall of Berlin and the months afterward, Karl Veth is faced with new challenges. He must help his family survive in an impoverished country torn apart by war. Food is scarce but using the street-smarts he developed throughout the war, Karl is able to establish a trading network between local farmers and the US military to help provide for his family. Until his father puts an end to it.

At 15 years old, Karl should have already left home and completed the first year of an apprenticeship in his chosen trade. With the war over, his father insists he behave like a responsible adult, leave home, and learn a trade so he can provide for himself. Uncertain of which direction to take, Karl accepts a position on a fishing vessel until he can decide on an honorable trade.

A kind ship's captain and his friend, a retired master chef, come to Karl's aid and set him on a course that will change his life forever. Over the next few years, under the tutelage of a stern master, he will learn more, much more, than the required skills of his chosen craft. 

Author's Note: Karl Veth's story began in the Degree series. He is the main character in the books and after reading the series, fans wanted to learn more about his life after the war. Encouraged by readers and their desire to know more, the story of Karl's journey to America begins in Germany in Book 1 and will be completed in Book 2. 

Recommended reading order:

Children To A Degree – Book 1
Loyal To A Degree – Book 2
Trust To A Degree – Book 3
Partners To A Degree – Book 4
Postwar Survivor - Journey To America: Book 1

• Language: English
• Publisher: Horst Christian
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386007678

Book preview

POSTWAR SURVIVOR

JOURNEY TO AMERICA: BOOK 1

Based on a True Story

Horst Christian

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Horst Christian

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Copyright

Also by Horst Christian

Children To A Degree

Loyal To A Degree

Trust To A Degree

Partners To A Degree

Postwar Drifter

Dedication

For my sister, Gisela, and my brother, Peter. I trust that you still remember some, if not most, of the incidents.

Foreword

Prior to World War II, it was customary for boys in Germany to leave home at the age of 14 to begin an apprenticeship in their chosen trade. They were considered adults at that age and expected to be able to support themselves after they had finished their education. Many things changed due to the war but when it was over, Karl’s father continued with the old ways and insisted he leave home. He was 15-years-old and past the age when he should have begun his apprenticeship. To some it may seem cruel to send a boy that young out into the world on his own, but in reality, it was done out of love. Karl’s father knew how difficult life would be in Germany if his son was not properly trained in an honorable trade.

Karl’s journey to America begins in Germany, just five months after the end of the war. He will study under a master and learn a trade that will ensure his success when he finally travels across the ocean to his new homeland.

Postwar Survivor is the first book in the two-book, Journey To America series and, as with all of the books in the Degree series, is based on a true story.

Horst Christian, February 2017

Chapter One

Germany, October 1945

Karl was pedaling his bicycle on a country road in the direction of Hameln (Hamlin) hoping to see a farmer working his field.

World War II had ended and left him rather confused.

He was 15 years old, small for his age, and until close to the end of war, he had been a sub-leader in several KLV camps, (air evacuation camps for children).

During the battle of Berlin, he had been drafted by the HJ (Hitler Youth) and served, until the surrender of the city, as a guide for SS demolition teams in the subway tunnels of Berlin.

Well, not exactly.

During the last days of the war he was essentially hiding with his friend Harold in an emergency exit and ventilation shaft of the Berlin subway system.

They had been hiding from both, the shock troops of the Soviets and the Flying Court Marshals (execution squads) of the SS.

Through some fortunate twists of circumstances Karl had been reunited with his parents, but because their apartment in Berlin had been destroyed during a bombing attack, they had moved to a relative’s home in Westphalia. Under the prevailing German law they were now designated refugees living in a small two room annex of a demolished farm.

Due to the fact that his father had been an engineer in a weapons manufacturing facility he was, for the time being, considered unemployable. This was a direct result of the Nuremberg trials. Any German who had been in a leading position of a defense or weapon factory had to be de-Nazified.

Until such time that he was considered healed and normal no company would dare to offer a job to the many capable, but never-the-less, designated Nazi professionals. It did not matter whether the individual had been a member of the Nazi party or not.

This resulted in the not too surprising fact that, all of a sudden, totally incompetent people advanced to management positions.

Karl had been trained that leadership positions had to be earned and the tough standards set by the past (Hitler’s) regime had led to extremely competent management teams.

Now they were gone; both the harsh requirements, as well as the proficient individuals. They were part of a past that nobody wished to remember.

At fifteen, Karl was the temporary breadwinner for the family. His father’s unemployment had wiped out the meager savings of the family. The newly formed provisional government printed and distributed entitlement coupons and food rationing stamps, but they were worthless.

The stores were empty of merchandise and the availability of food was next to nothing. The best, and most of the time the only way, to survive was through ‘kungling’, a newly coined German term for obtaining goods through exchanges on the black market.

Give me the bike! The demand came in a Baltic language from a young fellow who suddenly appeared in the middle of the road. Karl stopped and looked around. He thought that the boy, who was about of his own age but much larger, was asking for directions. Karl didn’t understand a word the stranger was saying as he reached for the bike and tried to wrestle it away.

Cholera, pironje, magda mobiechie! Karl let go with a slur of Russian and Polish swear words. He could only speak German, but he was perfectly able to swear in different languages. Another result of the war.

His barrage worked, but only for a moment. When Karl stopped cursing, the bully started to pull on the bike again.

Now it was Karl who was baffled. The confusion in the boy’s eyes told him that in front of him probably stood a displaced person from one of the Eastern countries. His hair was long and unkempt and his shoes were dirty. He was definitely not a German.

Sacramento Airport, Georgia peaches, safety matches! Karl didn’t know what he was shouting. He just recited some English idioms that he had overheard from American soldiers, hoping that these English words were strong profanities.

This time it worked. The bully backed off.

Peaches, peaches! Karl yelled at the top of his lungs as the aggressor started to run. He wanted nothing to do with an English speaking biker.

Hey, hey, do you speak German? Karl heard a voice behind him. It was a farmer who was raking his field with a horse-drawn contraption. Karl almost shouted for joy. He had been riding his bike for nearly half a day in search of a landowner but now that he found one he wasn’t too sure how to proceed.

His experience had taught him that actions were preferable to words.

He smiled at the rancher and pulled a pack of American Camel cigarettes from his pocket as if he wanted to light up. This would of course never happen. Karl was not about to consume his valuable currency and cigarettes were most definitely more valuable than cash.

Hold it, said the farmer. What do you want for a cigarette?

He didn’t ask how much? so it was clear that he wanted to kungle.

I need eggs, answered Karl.

No eggs, I give you potatoes.

Karl thought for a moment. He would have liked to take potatoes because they provided food for his family, but he needed to build up his supply of cigarettes and for this purpose he needed something like a cooperating partner. Preferably a chain smoker. He scanned the fingers of the rancher for nicotine marks but the hands he saw were too dirty from working to make out any stains.

If you give me eggs I can assure you a constant supply of American smokes, Karl tried again.

How is this possible? The rancher left his horse standing and crossed the street to take a closer look at Karl’s brand new looking package. No question. These were American cigarettes. The picture of the Camel was impossible to miss.

Where did you get the Amis? (American cigarettes) His question sparked an idea in Karl’s mind. He knew that the area around Hamlin was under British occupation, but the English smokes were not nearly as much in demand as the American counterparts.

I give you two Amis for four eggs, Karl ventured while he watched the expression on the farmer’s face.

You are out of your mind. The rancher shook his head but didn’t turn back. His eyes showed more than interest. He was tempted. The current rate is one for one.

For Tommies it is, (English cigarettes) but not for Amis. Karl smiled again and offered one of his smokes to the surprised rancher. Here try one and I make you a deal you will like.

You give me a smoke for free? The farmer hesitated.

No, not for free. While you are smoking you have to listen to me. Karl knew that he had the man’s interest. The farmer’s face was full of joy as he took the first puff.

This is unbelievable, he exclaimed. Talk to me, I will pay attention, but I have to tell you that I don’t have many eggs to give you. My wife keeps me on a short leash. He inhaled the smoke deeply, enthralled by the unique aroma.

You don’t have to give me your own eggs. You can obtain them from your neighbors by trading for Tommies. I know that British soldiers will trade their smokes three to one for Amis. If I give you a pack of Amis you can trade it to the English soldiers. If you do it right you can smoke for free and still give me two eggs for one Ami.

Karl was in luck. The farmer understood instantly and then his face clouded up.

If it is this simple why don’t you do it yourself? The proposition sounded too good. He didn’t know what to make of the boy.

I don’t have the time. It takes me almost a day to pedal to the American sector, Karl answered truthfully. Figure it out yourself. After I trade the eggs to the Americans, I have to take a percentage of their cigarettes to trade for food for my family.

The farmer had to admit that it was indeed a time consuming venture, but he still hesitated. He tried to find something wrong. What if I trade you 40 eggs for your pack and you never show up again?

Well, if you don’t trust me, how about introducing me to your neighbors? Karl was undeterred. He was ready to play his final card.

No, I rather do the deal myself. I just don’t have that many eggs to get us started. The rancher stubbed out the cigarette to save the other half for later.

Karl nodded that he understood. If this is the only reason, I can help. I give you twenty Amis for twenty pounds of potatoes. This will get you started and I’ll be back in two days with more packs. OK? He used the American expression which was quickly becoming the normal slang in Germany to seal an agreement.

"OK, let’s shake on that. My name is Bruns, however, that is Herr Bruns to you" he stretched out his hand.

"My name is Karl Veth. I guess this is Herr Veth to you?" Karl shook the offered hand.

The rancher had to laugh. The boy had guts, he started to like him.

No, I will call you Karl, but when you come back you can call me Richard. He shook hands with Karl once more to seal their deal.

You said that you will return with a full pack? In three days? How many eggs do you want? I mean all together? Herr Bruns was obviously warming up to the possibilities.

I’ll take as many eggs as you are able to find. My American contacts like fresh eggs for breakfast. Karl pushed the bike towards the field to follow the rancher home.

Wait here; I’ll bring you the potatoes. If my wife hears what we have going we might have a problem. She does not agree with my smoking habit. He detached the horse from the rake to help him carry the spuds. She might even want to recruit you for her own benefits.

Why would this be a problem, Herr Bruns? Karl kept on pushing his bike along. I might be able to find what she wants.

I doubt that very much. She is eager to get her hands on some sweet smelling soap. Nothing that a boy of your age would even know about.

Karl reached in his little backpack and produced a red and yellow packaged bar of Lifebuoy soap. You mean something like this?

Herr Bruns stopped in his stride. What is this? I have never seen any soap in a colored wrapping.

Karl shrugged his shoulders. It does not smell sweet, but clean. The American soldiers are using it. As far as I know it is somehow medicated and the most desired soap around.

He had recently run into an American quartermaster and had traded some German military medals for a box of the great smelling soap. His mother liked it and he had left most of the bars at home. However, soap was impossible to get on the regular market and was a better trading item than cigarettes or chocolate. It never got stale or melted. He figured that sooner or later he could kungle it for some food.

Alright, come along. If you make points with my wife it will be better for our business.

Karl smiled to himself. Herr Bruns had called their arrangement a business. He was making progress.

They found Frau Bruns working in the cow shed.

Look what this boy is willing to trade. Herr Bruns took the bar of soap from Karl and offered it to his wife. She took one whiff of the bar and stopped working.

This is heavenly. What do you want for it?

Karl was not sure what to ask for and reached out to retrieve his soap.

"Not so fast Kleiner, (little one) I asked what you want?"

What are you offering? The soap is one of a kind and I need some food. Karl had no idea what he could possibly obtain.

How about a pound of bacon? Frau Bruns offered.

Karl had not seen bacon in years. He knew that farmers had lived through the war differently than city dwellers and apparently they still did. He didn’t even know that bacon still existed and was thunderstruck by the offer.

So was Herr Bruns. You are willing to part with one pound of bacon for a miserable piece of soap? I can’t believe it.

You better. I will not give the soap back. Frau Bruns was serious and took Karl’s wavering the wrong way. I will give you five eggs in addition to the meat.

Karl could not believe it either. He just nodded and stretched out his hand to seal the deal. Normally he was not that slow, but he was stunned by the implications. Bacon was less cumbersome to transport on his bike than eggs. And soap was easier to obtain from the American soldiers than cigarettes. He was happy and thanked silently the bully who had forced him to stop.

Five eggs in addition to the bacon? What are you thinking? Herr Bruns had recovered from his shock and was close to shouting. You never give me bacon or eggs to trade for cigarettes; all I get from you are measly potatoes, he complained bitterly.

You don’t need to smoke, but I’ve had no decent soap for years. Frau Bruns went to a storage cellar and returned with the goodies while her husband helped Karl secure the bag of potatoes to his bike.

I’ll see you in three days Herr Bruns.

Karl wanted to say his good bye in a hurry before Richard’s wife changed her mind.

Wait. Here is an onion to make your supper perfect. Are you coming back? Can you bring us more soap? She had plenty of friends who might kungle her some shoes which she badly needed.

I don’t know, but I will try. As long as he had eggs to kungle he would be able to get soap. He also knew a possible source of war memorabilia. He just needed to figure out an advantageous trading ratio.

The trip back lasted until well into the night. The hilly countryside around the Weser river valley forced him many times to get off the bike and push it uphill. But, somehow the time seemed to fly. He had his mind working on the new trading opportunity. The soap presented a challenge and he was determined to exploit it.

His parents and his little five-year-old sister were sound asleep when he finally reached home. Only his eight-year-old brother Willy had waited up for him.

There you are. What did you bring us? Willy greeted his older brother. His eyes grew large in anticipation when he saw the heavy bag with potatoes. Are they all for us? In spite of the late hour he was eager to boil a few.

Yes, they are. But wait a moment. I got us some bacon to go with them.

Willy was not too excited about the delay. What is bacon? he wanted to know.

I’ll show you. Karl carried the potatoes into the kitchen. What did you eat for supper? he asked opening his backpack, not really expecting much of an answer.

We had a few slices of bread. We were hoping that you would come home in time.

Well, I am home now and will fix us something. Let’s see who wakes up first.

Karl had planned this surprise dinner during the last hour of his ride. He started to peel potatoes to make fried potatoes with bacon and eggs. He had no idea what to do with the onion. For a moment he thought of throwing it in the garbage, but Frau Bruns had said that it would complement the dish. So, he peeled it too, but regretted it when he wiped his tearing eyes. He guessed that his mother would be the first to wake up, but it was his little sister Monica who stuck her sleepy face into the kitchen.

What is this stink? She wasn’t old enough to remember the smell.

Karl calls it bacon. I don’t know what it is, but it comes with eggs. Willy explained. He had helped peel the potatoes and was proud of his contribution.