Weapons for Peace - A New Start for a New Time
by Alfred Opp
By the time the war in
Europe ended, the US Army was sitting on a huge arsenal pile that
was becoming out-dated before the last shot of the war was fired.
The Atomic-Jet Age was well on its way, built on the technological
and scientific advances made during the war effort. The American
forces in Europe had more hardware sitting around than they knew
what to do with. To ship it all back home would involve enormous
shipping costs. Both post-war funding and the merchant fleet were
limited. It was the Soviets who helped the Americans make a
decision.
Russia had the Eastern
Block smothered under a tight blanket, armed and ready to defend
their socialistic ideas from a capitalistic onslaught. The shouting
match between the two powers increased as time went on. The tension
of another confrontation was real. The fence protecting the West
from onslaught by the East started to sag under the pressure of
Russia's political might.
It was the existence of
the Atomic Bomb that put the damper on the fireworks. The Soviets
were into the propaganda game but were cautious about pushing the US
too far, as they were unsure how the US might react. For Germans,
this new wrinkle gave our feelings an added scare. Were we doomed to
suffer through another war - a nuclear war at that? Western European
nations had to start thinking defensively. The fear of being
swallowed up by another Monster had them thinking about their own
protection. These nations all needed weapons to defend themselves.
The Americans made a smart move and decided to sell their used
arsenal to their allies. But before this US equipment went on the
market, it had to be checked out and overhauled as needed. The US
Army turned to the German people to get the work done. One such
refurbishing plant was set up in a town near where we were living.
This town was central to many smaller villages. The plant was set up
to restore motorized vehicles of a variety of makes and styles -
nearly every kind except tanks. The workers were a mix of refugees,
farmers with no particular trade skills, handicapped war veteran's,
and people like me who had training in an out-dated trade that had
no future. We were all in need of help to get back on our feet. In
the US Army-run facility they treated us well and paid us union
wages. It worked out very well for everyone.
The plant did
everything needed to get these vehicles back into shape. Part of the
success story was the use of standardized parts that could be used
on a variety of vehicles. The US Army had that down pat. Every
vehicle left the plant running well, with a new paint job,
upholstery and logos to suit the new owners.
The workers worked in
shifts. All sorts of disabled people were employed in this effort,
including war veterans who were blind, or were missing one or both
arms or legs - we had them all. I was in the upholstery department
sewing tarps. We had a guy with no arms who was our courier taking
work orders from one department to the next. Then we had another guy
with no legs who was our comptroller. A blind man sorted nuts and
bolts. A guy who had lost touch with his world was our go-get pal.
That man for years had been in a Russian war camp and when he came
home he was a complete wreck. Then his wife left him and he was
finished. All he did was talk to himself. By being patient with him
and including him, we found he had a lot to say.
That first year, the
army gave us a Christmas party. The company picked us up and got us
back in buses. The hall was nicely decorated for the occasion. They
gave us a nice dinner with a Santa in attendance all the way from
the good old USA. He gave everyone a bag of sweets with each of us
promising to be good. The Major gave a warm speech thanking everyone
for the good work we did. We all gave him a standing ovation. The
evening closed with all of us feeling good.
Two months later the
company gave us a Falshings-Party
- a Masked Ball. For this occasion, everyone showed up in a colorful
outfit. This type of party is very popular in the German speaking
Catholic areas of Central Europe such as Austria and southern
Germany, but especially in the Rhine region. This custom seems to go
back to very ancient times when the people felt the need to chase
off ghosts and witches. Mask-makers past and present have shown
great talent in the expressive masks they make for the
Falschings-Party. Various dances are
staged throughout the evening for the masked participants to enjoy.
If someone showed up at the party without a costume, they were given
a funny hat to wear so they could join in the fun. We young people
went all out to dress for the occasion. I went as a pirate with
black pants, a white shirt and a red scarf tied around my head. A
bit of shoe polish did the trick for makeup - it was cheap and
effective. I escorted the daughter of one of my co-workers who
wanted to go to the party, but not particularly with her dad. So I
was a good guy and "helped out." Linda was also a good sport who was
a little older than I. She knew a little English, but I did not. For
this event, the Americans were our invited guests and were seated in
a select area to watch the evening unfold.
The first half of the
evening involved some clowning around, showing off our costumes and
silly tricks. This came to a conclusion with a vote of the "people's
choice" for the best costume. After that we got a beer and a bite to
eat. Then the dance band took over with traditional German dance
music - Polkas, Waltzes, Folk Dances and all the Latin numbers.
During the dancing I noticed a young American lady with a big smile
sitting in the visitors' box. As my buddies and I sat down after one
of the numbers, I bragged to my buddies that I was going to get me
that lady for a dance. They thought I was nuts. "They'll grab you by
the pants and throw you out" they teased, with grins and laughter
all around. I wasn't afraid, and decided to go for it. Before I
headed over to the visitors' box, my date gave me a quick lesson in
English: "May I - Please - Thank you." . . . "May I - Please - Tank
ju - " . . . I walked right up to my American lady and said,
"Please." She just about jumped out of her seat - not because of me,
but because she wanted to dance. Her beau sat there and didn't move
a muscle. He had the looks of a Drill Sergeant. I gave her my arm
and we made our way down the steps to the dance floor. Once we were
on the dance floor, I noticed how well-dressed she was, in a pretty
dress and high heels - she looked gorgeous. She was of a short build
with a youthful look.
And so we danced. What
a dancer she turned out to be. She swirled around with ease, her
skirt flying. All I had to do was lead. All the time we danced, she
talked. All I could say was, "jajaja, jaaa, " that was it. I didn't
understand a word she said. She went through the Polkas and Waltzes
with ease, never missing a beat. I was in good shape from doing
sports, but she never missed a step, didn't break a sweat. After
dancing a few rounds, I walked her back to her seat thinking, "What
a nice lady she is." I thought by now the Sergeant would show some
displeasure. He showed absolutely no reaction.
When I got back to my
seat, my buddies swarmed all over me, patting me on the back and
hoisting their beer glasses in celebration as if I had just scored
the winning goal in overtime. I was disgusted. What was the lady
thinking of me now, with those fools celebrating on me like I was
the Deer Hunter. But
there was nothing I could do.
As was customary, later
in the evening the band leader announced Damenwahl
- ladies choice. Here the ladies could
have their choice of a dance partner. My lady didn't understand that
at first. When she saw what was going on, she made her move to do
the same. In hopes she might reciprocate, I asked Linda to wait -
she didn't mind. My American lady came down the steps and walked
straight to our table, took me by the hand and led me to the dance
floor. At that moment, she put my heart and thoughts at peace.
We both reached out to
have a good time, the American lady and the German refugee. We
tossed aside the barrier of contempt and took down our masks to show
our true feelings. When I walked the lady back to her seat, she
smiled and squeezed my hand, and so did I. Now I could understand
what she was saying. All humans have feelings. As it turned out, it
wasn't a Fool's Party
after all.
By Alfred Opp
Edited by Connie Dahlke
____________________
Alfred Opp is the author of "Pawns on the World Stage" - the memoirs
of his childhood in Teplitz, Bessarabia and the experiences of his
family in war-torn Europe (Poland during 1941-1945 before they fled
to East Germany in 1945, then the reconstruction of West Germany
1945-1955).