Just Kiss Me One Last Time by Brian Hesse (best ebook reader android .TXT) 📕

Chapter X Working for the Ford Motor Company

I didn’t leave for the train station immediately following the burial in old Mrs. Feiser’s basement. It is a funny thing…the mind. With the flames of adrenalin fueled by fear of losing one’s freedom or, life, other higher emotions are placed in a reserve status. As the fear subsides, the mind is active once again, and when the mind is active, the higher emotions of guilt and sadness reign supreme. This is what happened to me. My muscles were burning from my tireless digging and my mind was swollen with guilt sadness. The former because of my strong held belief that all life, no matter how repulsive, deserve to live. The latter because I was leaving the only world I have ever known behind.

After an hour of rest and washing the blood and dirt from between my fingers from a bucket I found filled with stagnant water, I resigned myself to go home and pack a small bag. The trains in Frankfurt run day and night. Our little city has expanded since the ending of the war. Doctors, psychiatrists, lawyers, political leaders, corner groceries, the unemployed, and the aimless have expanded across Germany. News on the street is that the German economy is growing. France does not seem so interested, or able, to collect the outrageous reparations placed on Germany after the war.

Between January and June 1919, France forced Germany to sign the Treaty of Versailles. Germany was stripped of its overseas colonies, lost large portions of land to France and Poland, and expected to pay for much of the property destruction from the war. However, by 1923, under pressure from Britain and America, France scaled back on some of the more damaging provisions. So, I accepted this knowledge as the primary cause for the improved economic conditions of today, and this increase in economic affairs allows the Frankfurt trains to be in full swing.

I was relived to see that my flat was unoccupied. Ada was still at work at Mr. Hoffman’s Grocery on Hamburg Plaza, not a very profitable store because Mr. Hoffman is very generous with giving credit. Ada told me one night that Mr. Hoffman gave a less than altruistic view of giving people groceries on credit. She recalled him saying, “let them eat on credit, because when times are good again, allot of people are going to owe me big time. Maybe the mayor ship of Frankfurt is in my immediate future,”

I can’t say I blame him. Nothing in this life is free, not even freedom itself. The price of war for the Keiser is a smashed economy and a politically divided people. The price of acceptance is betraying whom you are. The price of a kiss is loss of freedom for one, death in a dirt floored basement for another, and a ticket for a seat on a train…everything has a price.

I reached the station at four thirty that afternoon. The station was not very crowded since the average work day did not end until five thirty in the evening. I was hoping to catch the five O clock train to Berlin. I had plenty of money saved from working as much overtime as I possibly could the past several years. In hindsight, which is always clear as crystal, overwork is sure anecdote for avoidance of the uncomfortable. Some take refuge in intoxication or the temporary bliss of sex, and some take refuge from misery with overwork. Ada’s touch and my brothers’ control are the source of my suffering.

“I would like one second class ticket to Berlin. I believe the train departs at five,” I stated, with one arm resting on the ticket booth counter as I looked slowly around the station. I must have looked so mysterious peering around the station that day, but a sense of dread permeated my soul. Dreams certainly end sometimes when is just at the horizon of perceived bliss.

“Sorry young man. That train is delayed. Word is that another clash between Communist and Social Democrats erupted throughout Berlin. Tor up some of the damn track, someone did,” he stated, looking at me suspiciously over his pez nez glasses.

What else could be said accept, “thank you, I will come back in an hour to buy a ticket.”

I sat down on a hard-wooden bench outside the station. The time is five already and Ada will soon be leaving work. We are supposed to meet at my flat for supper. My brother arranged this supper. He would not say, but he had some grand announcement to make. When I am not there, Ada at least, will come look for me. Eventually she will come to the station.

Just as I was summoning the courage to walk the two hundred and seventy miles to Berlin, hitchhiking along the way, my thoughts were disturbed by a deep voice, speaking German but with an accent I never heard before.

“Hello young man. Let me introduce myself. I am Thomas Rhodes of the Ford Motor Company.”

He extended a large black leather gloved hand peeking from a tan overcoat that extended just below the knees. His coat was open, and I could see a very expensive looking pinstriped suit, navy blue in color, and a baby blue silk shirt just visible above the collar bone. He wore a black hat with the rim curled upward on both sides. I believe Americans referred to this type of hat as a Derby. His face is not very remarkable in any way. An average face with a small brownish red mustache extending from one corner of the mouth to the other.

“Hello sir,” I replied. It is nice to meet you.”

I was not particularly pleased to be talking to anybody. My mind was occupied.

“I like your face young man.”

He must know I thought. Picking up male prostitutes at a busy train station was not as uncommon as one might think. Even Frankfurt has an underground of outcasts, including gay men, but prostitution is normally a nocturnal activity.

“I’m sorry sir, but you may have the wrong,” …

He stopped me, probably to spare me the obvious embarrassment of misinterpreting a situation.

“Of course, I don’t have the wrong idea. You have the perfect face for an associate of the Ford Motor Company. Let me explain myself. I have been sent on a mission by my superiors back in America. Germany is about to become profitable once again, and my boss likes to take advantage of opportunities, and your nation is an opportunity.”

I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about. His German was not very good, but that was not the problem. I never heard of Ford, and still was not very interested. Time was running out and I needed to make my move before it was too late.

“How about you work for me. I will pay your lodging and ten dollars per day. On your part, you be my interpreter, change our wheels when necessary, and to be honest, just keep a lonely traveler company along the way.”

I was still unsure of what was expected of me, but this was an opportunity not to be missed. I had a ride to Berlin, or as close as possible, a generous working wage, and free lodging. This opportunity would never come again. So, I said goodbye one last time as I followed Mr. Rhodes of the Ford Motor Company to his car, a closed shiny black automobile with a grey plush interior.

The ride to Berlin was a long but quite interesting journey, even for a youth burning with energy and ambition. Endless miles past, driving on roads sometimes paved but more often unfinished, course, and rocky. I am thrilled to be on the road. Every mile driven is another mile further from my past, and with each spent gallon of petrol, another pint of homesickness spilled along the dirt roadway. Oh yes, I am homesick. The first day on the road I contemplated going back. Even if the familiar is less than ideal, even downright brutal, it is still the familiar, and the familiar is like a wool blanket on a frost-bitten January morning. But time really does heal wounds, or maybe just covers them with a temporary bandage. In either case, there is no turning back now.

  Earning my daily wage is not easy. With a backseat full of spare tires, petrol, and grease, I am in a constant supply of necessary material for an estimated ten-day trip. With each stop, I am to change a tire if needed, grease the axles and other moving parts of the engine, of which I do not even know the names, and fill the tank full. We stopped in several small villages along the journey, and very close to the city of Kassel.

   “I received news of some interesting events that have taken place in Munich just yesterday,” stated Mr. Rhodes.

   Without giving me time to answer, he continued, “it would seem that an attempted coup has taken place in Munich.” He looked over at me briefly being not one to take his eyes off the road for long and continued his reporting. “A young man by the name of Adolf Hitler and a group of German Workers Party members (SA stormtroopers) attempted to storm several government buildings in the cities center. According to reports, Hitler and about 3000 followers had a showdown with 100 armed police. Several people killed and the Nazi’s disbanded, with many arrested.” Well that’s all I know, but I do hope this does not interfere with business.

    I felt angry at first with this last statement concerning business, but then I viewed the situation from his viewpoint. Here is a foreigner in a strange war-torn land. I did not blame him for not understanding the humiliation and anger felt by so many German citizens. I did not agree with the Nazi stance on Jews. Over the past two years listening to my brother talk across the dinner table, I had a clear understanding of his party’s official policy on Jews and homosexuals. Concerning Jews, Hitler made clear early on that the Jews were the cause of Germanys defeat. How ridiculous a statement and yet many began to believe him. Concerning homosexuals, not much was said in those early years, other than a few remarks concerning immorality. The official view was that homosexuals were corrupted, probably by Jews, but there was a hope for a cure. What tat cure was, was never talked about in speeches. My brother let slip one night that a very large proportion of SA leaders and members engaged in sex acts with fellow members. The hypocrisy of life never fails to amuse me.

   There is little to say concerning the rest of the trip. We had many successes along the way showcasing the new Ford Model T for potential widespread sale in a better Germany. The cost of one car was currently four hundred and fifteen American dollars. Very few Germans could afford such a price, but I was beginning to see Mr. Ford as a certified genius. If he could have his automobile massed produced with funds from a friendly democratic government in Germany, the future revenues would be astonishing. Mr. Rhodes would often stare in front of the road while driving and speak about a day when every citizen of Europe and America owned an automobile. Although skeptical of such a futuristic world, I politely nodded my agreement and stated how wonderful that will be.

  So here we are in Berlin after ten days on the road, and I have more than enough money to rent a flat, find work, and live my life on my own terms…free and happy. How was I to know that political events could ever thwart such modest ambitions as personal