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NEAR KITZINGEN WEST GERMANY - 1957

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ROHN’S SKETCH OF SUMMERHAUSEN



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CEMETRARY IN OBERAMMERGAU



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ROHN AT AGE 26 WUERZBURG

My Story
5

At 5:00 a.m. on the morning of May 20th 1957, the wake up shrill of a well-scratched reveille record pierced the PA system in the hallway of our barracks. I lifted the blind, looked out and saw fog everywhere. “Jeeze”, I said.

I don’t know if I was saying the “Jeeze” to the fog out there or just that I gotta do it. I gotta follow through and just get on that motor scooter today and head west.

But if I didn’t follow through, what would I tell all the people that tried to convince me not to go on this trip?

Sleeping wasn’t easy during last night. Several times my thoughts turned to just forgetting the whole thing. I could do that. Several times in the last week as my discharge date came up I thought about just dropping the whole idea.

I could sell my Vespa in downtown Wuerzburg and buy a plane ticket back to the states. I could spend a few more days with Maria, or a few more weeks or the whole summer, or a lifetime with her. She wasn’t there to see me off. I cut things off. I told her not to be there.
“No, no, don’t do this, forget the trip. Dump it. It’ll make you feel better” was what I heard in my head. And it wasn’t the people who surrounded me talking, it was I saying it.
But I looked at all my travel belongings. I had prepared the night before to strap on to my Vespa. And thought about all the official papers I had filled out and the goodbyes I had made. It would be easy to appear on Maria’s doorstep. But the sun was now coming up and by the time it was setting on May 20th 1957, I had to be somewhere, and it couldn’t be in the barracks of the ____________.

Rick caught up with me on the way to the mess hall for breakfast. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. “This is it,” he said. “Freedom!” he shouted.

I tried to muster a smile. I guess I did for his sake. He was happy for me.
I was scared. What had I done? Why had I chosen to take this trip?
Was Lieutenant Kohler right? Was I running away from something?
I had told him, “No, I’m breaking away. I’m not running away.”
At breakfast, I had no appetite.
Sergeant Adams came by our table in the mess hall, stood over me and tossed a brown enveloped near my plate. “There it is, Engh, your discharge papers. Lieutenant Kohler says to shoot a tiger for him in Africa.”
“I mumbled as I looked at the envelope, “ They don’t have any tigers in Africa.”
“Well, don’t shoot yourself in the foot!” He said, walking away smiling, something I rarely saw from him.
“He’s just jealous,” Rick said.

Back at the barracks, Rick helped me pack the motor scooter. I had shipped all of my non-trip belongings back to Maryland. All that remained were the essentials for my trip: my guitar, my pup tent, my Rollieflex, a map and the “civvies” I had chosen to wear on my journey.

What with the fog hanging over the gray cement-block buildings around the quadrangle and the sun starting to break through the heavy mist and the silver color of my sparkling new Vespa, it all gave a silvery tinge to my departure.

Rick grabbed me by the neck, shook me a little, and didn’t say anything as he shook his head. “Good luck!”

I whistled to Rick who was walking back to the quadrangle where everyone was assembling for roll call. He turned, gave a “thumbs up” gesture, turned and continued on. .

I was alone. I was on my own.

I started up the Vespa, swallowed, and headed west.

I left all the doubts about canceling the trip behind. I was on my way. The horizon awaited me. I didn’t feel good about all this. “So this was ‘freedom’?” I said to myself.
My first day on the road was a frightening one. An accident near the end of the day nearly ended the trip on the first day.
The road out of Wuerzburg winds around the sloping vineyards that border the city to the west and twists and turns through a series of hills and valleys toward the nearby river city of Frankfort/Main.
I hadn’t really had much experience driving the Vespa. On highways. I drove at cautious speeds, much to the irritation of fast moving Germans cars and Army trucks. It was a cold morning and heavy winds swept across the countryside. I had attached a windshield to the Vespa. The winds would sometimes catch me from the back and other times sweep in from the right, causing me to veer onto the opposite lane (in Germany, people drive in the right lane like in the USA).
Then suddenly the wind would shift and catch sideways in the windshield. The wind would treat it like a sail, and would send the scooter sweeping at sudden angles off the road or into the oncoming lane.
I had to concentrate every moment in preparation for the next gust of wind. The newness of driving a motor scooter was uncomfortable enough, but the sudden jolts from the wind made steering not so pleasant.
That first day, I made a distance of only 80 miles. It took me six hours. Other motorcyclists and motor scooters passed me. Some of them waved to me and were probably surprised at not seeing a grandmother driving the Vespa. It wasn’t just a couple of times the thought entered my head that when I got to Frankfurt, I could drive into the Vespa distributorship, sell my machine, and buy an airline ticket to Baltimore.

Sometimes I would stop in a village or alongside the roadway to watch the passing traffic and the people bustling on their way to work or doing their everyday chores. If I caught someone’s eye, I would nod my head and say, “Gruess Gott.’ Which was the normal way of saying hello to a stranger in this part of West Germany. My brand spanking new Vespa was a clue to them that I must be just starting out. Some would actually stop and ask where I was off to and if I was an American and all that. Then they would head off on their daily routine or whatever they had to do that day.

Well, I didn’t have anything to do that day except move westward or just stay set or whatever I wanted to do. It’s then that I think an overwhelming feeling of independence overcame me. I wasn’t beholden to anybody. Not Colonel Henderson, not Lieutenant Kohler, not to my parents, not to anybody. I can’t remember ever feeling this way.

I was to feel that way a lot on the road ahead. The sun was my clock and the leaves would be my calendar. But independence has its price I was to learn too.
I had $192.50 in my pocket in USA cash. I didn’t exchange it for the local currency. The Germans liked U.S. dollars even more than their own deutschmarks. I suspected everyone in Europe would be glad to accept the dollar.
Late in the afternoon, I learned my first lesson for the beginner on a motor scooter. Pay attention to the road. As I was nearing the village of Dettingen, I came up on a steep grade that ended in a beautiful view, actually a panoramic view, of a wide valley with little farms and quilted vegetable patches, I locked into the immensity of the scene and didn’t notice that the road made a sharp winding curve around the mountain.
I felt the scooter wheels hit the gravel that bordered the road. It was too late to avoid an accident. I guided the scooter so that it slid sideways into a guardrail that protected the road from a cliff.
I didn’t have time to think. Only a second later I wouldn’t have had time to maneuver and guide the scooter. I would have tumbled a hundred feet to the valley floor. As it happened, the smash of the scooter when it hit the railing threw me over top of my windshield and I slid along the railing several feet.
I laid there for a while. “What the hell was that?” I got up and limped over to the scooter to check the damage. “Ouch!” There was a tear in my corduroy pants just about the knee level.
And then I thought about my guitar. I had it in a nice soft covered cloth case strapped on by back and since I slid on my belly, it was not damaged. The rest of my stuff had come loose and was strewn over the area like an upturned grocery cart. My right sleeve was torn open and I could see a bloody bruise on my elbow.
My next reaction was to jump up and for the passing motorists who had seen the whole thing, act as if nothing had happened. Sorta like the pro baseball player who gets hit by a wild pitch and tries not to show the pain.

As I was brushing gravel from my pants, I heard from behind a voice in German, “You better wear a crash helmet next time, son.”
I turned to see a stout man and his wife walking towards me. They had seen my accident and had parked their car on the opposite side of the road.
“Yes, I think you’re right! My name is Rohn Engh, pleased to me you, sir.” They could tell by my accent I was not a German.
“Hans Werner,” He greeted me and I shook hands with him and his wife. “Here, we’ll help you gather your belongings.”

It was an odd feeling. There we were. Two people I had not known a minute before were handling all my worldly possessions. Everything I owned was spread about the roadside. I felt naked as Frau Werner handed me my razor and toothpaste. Herr Werner helped me set the scooter upright. He examined it, gave it a pat and said, “Sturdy vehicle, that Vespa.”
“Are you on vacation?” Frau Werner asked.

“Well, sorta,” I smiled. “I’m off to see the world.”

We continued searching for lost items from my spill in the gravel. I saw them whispering. “You’re off to see the world? How would you like to see a German family’s home? He said. “We can fix up those bruises for you,” Frau Werner said.

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s starting to get dark, do you mind if I set up my pup tent in your back yard?”
“Won’t hear of it,” He said. “Our son’s away. He’s attending the university. You can sleep in his room. Now let’s get that Vespa started and we’ll head home. Just follow us.”

The handlebars of the Vespa were twisted out of alignment. Herr Werner held the front wheel while I twisted the handlebars into position.

“There! That ought to do it!” He smiled, squatting in front of the scooter, squinting at the alignment with one eye.

I didn’t tell them this was my first day of driving the scooter. I got on the Vespa and followed them. I tried to look confident. But after that accident I was still nervous.
Dettingen was just a few miles ahead. I had often passed through Dettingen on my way to Frankfurt. From a distance, the tiny stone houses of the village were nestled together like a neat little Christmas tree village.
Along the cobble-stoned main street, farmers led their oxen through the town hauling grain from the fields. Housewives were watering flowers growing from second floor balconies. It excited me to know I was going to spend the night in one of those stone houses. He pulled up in front of a prosperous-looking general store.
Herr Werner popped out of his car shouting, “We are here!” He was the proprietor of this small, thick-walled store in the middle of town. A couple of customers were inside and they greeted him neighborly when we entered.

“This is our American friend, Rohn Engh,” he said, introducing me to his clerk.
It appeared to be a grocery store but also a hardware store. It occupied the front room of the first floor of the house. I followed the Werners through a thick curtain separating the store from their living quarters. We entered into a sitting room with a small kitchen off to the side
He had the clerk wheel my Vespa around to the back yard while Frau Werner showed me the upstairs room where I would sleep.

“Take off you jacket and wash up,” she said, pointing to a towel beside the sink in the hallway. “I’ll have Hans bring up the bandages.”

It felt odd having him bring me bandages that were probably left over from just a decade ago when American airplanes were bombing nearby Frankfort. It was a big industrial center. I understand it was the custom if the planes had any bombs left over, many times they would drop them on nearby villages, especially near the end of the war when animosity was heating up between the Germans and the Allied Air Forces.

“That was a nasty spill you took young man!” Herr Werner grunted as he stretched the bandage around my arm. .”Now give me those clothes and I’ll get my wife to mend them up for you.
“I hate to put you to all this trouble,” is all I could come up with.

“No trouble at all,” he muttered. “I would expect a stranger to do the same for my son.
The welcome aroma of hash browns and onions and bratwurst was making its way up the stairs. My first day out and luck was on my side. I was enjoying the hospitality of a German home. I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw a grubby blonde-haired character I wasn’t familiar with. My army existence was gone. I was a civilian again. But this time in a foreign country.

Herr Werner came back with some of his son’s clothes for me to wear while Frau Werner was mending mine.
“C’mon, let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” He said.
Frau Werner was still wearing her kitchen apron when she set a steaming plate of Wiener schnitzel in front of me. I gobbled it up. I could see it pleased her that I had a good appetite for her meal. Over supper we talked about their son, Gerhardt’s progress at the university. “He’s at the University of Freibourg, Frau Werner said. “He’s been there two years and has three more to go. He’s studying to be an engineer.”

Why did he decide to be an engineer?” I asked.
“Gerhardt has always been interested in constructing things,” she said.
“Was Gerhardt in the war, I mean, did he see any fighting?” I asked. I know it’s not polite to ask such questions but I was always asking questions like that while I was overseas. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say, I know, but how could I learn if I didn’t ask? Isn’t that why I was on this trip?

Frau Werner looked at her husband and muttered, “He was too young. He was in an organization for boys. He learned to fire a rifle near the end. But he didn’t shoot anyone.”
The organization was probably the “Hitler Jugend ”, but no one during the time I was in Germany was willing to say the word, ‘Hitler’ or Dachau or Auschwitz or any of those places.
Herr Werner was quick to lead the conversation away from such things. He broke in “At the University, for Gerhardt, it’s hard for we Germans to decide anything these days, I’ve gone through two wars in my lifetime, and now with the Russians and the Communists, it looks like we might in the middle of another. Gerhardt is studying to be an engineer, but the bridges he builds might be destroyed before they’re even used. Our son has talked about emigrating to the United States. Is there much of a future for a young man over there?

I didn’t discourage him and Frau Werner, but having done my Army work in the area of immigration, I knew there was a long waiting period for German civilians except for those with special talent or special knowledge, like being a former Nazi in a high position.

I didn’t dare bring up that subject. Besides the Nazis didn’t exist, nor concentration camps. I could’ve brought up the subject to get some real information about life in Dettingen during the war years, but I felt my repayment for this wonderful hospitality was my gift of not continuing any conversation about the war. I stopped taking about life back them and just spoke about the present time, and the future for West Germany.

I just sat quiet and nodded my head.
He continued, “ It’s no use for us to save any money these days. All I had saved in the past was lost in the currency reform of 1948. All the money I make nowadays is invested in things they can’t take away from me.”
Frau Werner finished mending my clothes. We sat around and talked about where I lived in Maryland, near the ocean. I played a few German songs I had learned in Wuerzburg and they smiled at my funny accent but urged me on to sing others

Gerhardt’s bed was next to a small window that looked out on the main street through town. He had lived in this house since he was 3 years old. From the pictures on his wall, I figured he was about 23 now. There wasn’t much for him to do in the war effort when he was 11-years old. But I bet he saw a lot of things American boys his age never will see. It would’ve been interesting to have met him and talked to him. But like most of the young people I met in Wuerzburg who were in their 20’s, there was an unspoken silence when it came to topics of the war, it’s as though they didn’t recognize the burned out public buildings and homes that still hadn’t been repaired.

Yet there was a strange aspect of German young men during those years in the 50’s. And that’s this. They sure would let the steam out at bars and events where they had been drinking a lot. Real brawls, fist fights, tables turned over, that sort of thing. It’s as they were all holding back a secret. An unmentionable secret about how they’re government had led them down an unthinkable path that when they finally learned the truth about how their leaders had conducted themselves it erupted in great anger. I was getting closer to a truer picture of how a country could commit the atrocities they did during the early 1940’s.

I fell asleep with those thoughts.

NEXT: Leaving Germany and heading west.