A Singular Education: A German Bachelor in New York (1964-1974)

CHAPTER 1

"S o what about you, Günter? What brings you to America?"

It was April 1964 and the five other diners with whom I shared a table on the S.S. France looked up at me expectantly. I had just heard each of their stories: Walter Licht, a German master jeweler seeking employment; a Dutchman on a business trip; a young banker from Switzerland being transferred to a branch in New York; and a middle-aged French couple on vacation. Now it was my turn.

I could have told them how I had dreamed of coming to the United States ever since I had read Billy Jenkins dime novels about the Wild West when I was in my early teens. Or how impressed I had been with the many CARE parcels my mother and I received from a farm family in Pennsylvania while we were living in a refugee camp in West Germany. How, I had wondered, could farmers afford such generosity? And then there were all those Hollywood films in which well-dressed middle-class folks drove around in sleek cars roomy enough to seat six. I could also have told them how, after the Berlin Wall went up in 1961, leaving more than half of my relatives trapped in the Soviet Zone, my father had warned me to leave Europe at the first sign that Soviet tanks were rumbling westward across Europe.

Yes, I could have told them all that. But one thing was certain. I couldn’t tell them the truth. Unlike them, I wasn’t coming for economic reasons or as a tourist or out of fear of a Soviet onslaught. I had left behind a well-paying job in Germany and there was no job waiting for me in America. Other than my clothes, my only worldly possessions were a Green Card, a $99 Continental Trailways bus ticket good for ninety-nine days, $400 in cash, and the address of the Proctor family in California. I had met Bob Proctor when he was working in Germany for a year and his parents had graciously agreed to be my sponsors. If I were honest with myself, I had no prospects in America at all.

In fact, the real reason I was coming to the United States was that, at the age of twenty-six, I was about to put nearly seven thousand miles between me and a beautiful, but emotionally unstable, young woman named Charlotte who desperately wanted to marry me despite my insistence that I was not ready to settle down. When Charlotte had seen me off at the railroad station in Cologne, she had made me promise to return to Germany in a year or two. Since the whole situation did not make sense, even to me, how could I explain it to a group of perfect strangers?

Looking down at my plate to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, I cleared my throat. I have friends in California, I finally replied.

****

Right after breakfast the next morning I set out to explore the ship. Barely two years since her February 1962 maiden voyage, the S.S. France had every conceivable luxury: a swimming pool with a removable glass roof, a huge ballroom, a movie theater, a reading room, and ample space to take walks on deck in the fresh salty air. But my favorite place was the railing at the stern where I could stand for hours watching the waves churning on either side of the ship’s wide wake as she sped towards another continent.

Walter Licht, the German master jeweler, came up beside me. From what I had already found out, Walter, who was also in his mid-twenties, had worked in Canada for almost two years and then in New York City for six months. After returning home to Germany for a brief visit, he was now ready to look for a permanent job in the States. Here was someone who could give me some practical advice.

Mind if I ask you something? Walter began as he leaned against the railing next to me. And I hope I’m not prying, but I noticed how you squirmed when people were telling their stories last night. So, tell me, are you really going all the way to California just to visit some friends? Or is there something more to it? I tried to think of a calm, collected way to respond, but he spoke first. For instance, it wouldn’t surprise me if one of those ‘friends’ in California happened to be a beautiful lady. What do you say to that?

No, it’s nothing like that. The Proctor family is sponsoring me, that’s all.

So? Why didn’t you just say so?

"Everyone had such great plans and I had to say something last night, I admitted, carefully avoiding any mention of Charlotte. I didn’t want to tell them that I have nothing at all lined up."

Why not? Lots of people go to the States hoping for a better life. That’s what I’m doing. Besides, anyone who has had a practical apprenticeship like mine can do much better there. America desperately needs well-trained craftsmen. Walter paused for a moment and glanced over at me. "You did do an apprenticeship in Germany, right?"

"I did mine in the administration of a large chemical company as an Industrie Kaufmann. I don’t even know how to translate that into English. Office clerk, maybe?"

Walter shook his head. An office clerk, huh? That unfortunately is quite a different story. They’re a dime a dozen in the States. I don’t want to discourage you, but are you sure you’ve thought this whole project through?

I’m beginning to wonder the same thing

Well, I wish you luck. I really do. It takes guts to do what you’re doing. By the way, I also meant to ask you, how long will you be staying in New York before you head out to the West Coast?

Just a couple of hours. We dock in the morning and my bus leaves that same evening.

Great! That should give me some time to show you around the City before you go.

****

On April 29, 1964, after six nights at sea, the S.S. France arrived in New York and, along with hundreds of my fellow passengers, I was up at dawn to watch as we sailed past the copper-green Statue of Liberty in the harbor. Looming ahead of us and dwarfing any city I had ever seen before was the towering skyline of lower Manhattan.

Walter and I left the ship together and, as soon as we cleared customs, we took a taxi to the William Sloane House Y.M.C.A., a massive brick building with more than fourteen hundred rooms located at the corner of West 34th Street and Ninth Avenue. While I had a cup of coffee and waited with my luggage in the cafeteria, Walter booked himself a room for the next few weeks and brought his bags upstairs. He planned to stay there only until he landed a job and could afford a better place.

The Y.M.C.A. was not far from the Port Authority Bus Terminal where I deposited my trunk and my suitcase with Continental Trailways. Then Walter and I set out for Broadway and Times Square. From there, by elbowing our way through the crowds of pedestrians on 42nd Street, we passed the New York Public Library, crossed Fifth Avenue, made a quick detour down a steep ramp into the cavernous great hall of Grand Central Station, and then continued east to explore the grounds of the United Nations Building.

After grabbing a bite to eat in a Horn & Hardart automat (where, to my astonishment, we retrieved our sandwiches by putting coins into a slot to open the doors to little glass compartments) we headed back out to the street. So, Walter said, what would you like to see next? We haven’t got much time. The Empire State Building? Rockefeller Center?

Honestly? What I’d really like to see is Harlem.

What on earth do you want to go all the way up there for?

Because I love jazz and I was hoping to see some famous places where Negroes perform. Maybe even get to hear some amateur musicians playing on a street corner. But, of course, if it’s too far out of the way, then we could do something else.

Well, I doubt you’ll see anyone playing music out on 125th Street, but if that’s what you want to do… Clearly Walter did not share my enthusiasm, but he was a good sport and soon we were speeding along to 125th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue on the A train, which Duke Ellington’s orchestra had made famous.

As soon as we emerged from the underground subway station to the street looking like tourists fresh off the boat in our dress pants, white shirts, and blazers, small groups of Negroes dressed in worn-out jeans, baggy suit jackets, and caps with turned up brims loitered on the sidewalk and eyed us with suspicion. Under the watchful gaze of the entire neighborhood we walked past dilapidated buildings and piles of litter, poking our heads into several stores as we went, all to the way over to First Avenue and back. We saw no street musicians along the way. We passed no lively jazz bars. Other than the angry muttering of some of the people who glared at us as we passed by, the only sounds we heard for nearly two hours were the nearby sirens of police patrol cars and fire engines. This was a far cry from the comfortable, middle-class Negro world I had seen depicted in copies of Ebony magazine at the Amerika-Haus library back in Cologne.

We had just walked back past the Apollo Theater, Blumstein’s Department Store, and the Theresa Hotel and, half a block ahead of us, we could see the green railing of the entrance to the IND subway, when an elderly Negro man with a scruffy white beard and wild tufts of gray hair blocked my way. Hey, Mister, ya got a dime? he asked.

Yes, sir, I replied, glancing down at my wristwatch. It’s forty-five minutes after three o’clock.

Instead of the polite thank you I had expected, the man raised his fist to my face and screamed, Why don’t you go fuck yourself, motherfucker!

Walter reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. C’mon, let’s go!

But what did I do? What did I say? I asked as I glanced back at the man who was still shaking his fist at me as we hurried towards the train.

For heaven’s sake, stop turning around and I’ll tell you. Walter reached into his pocket and pulled out two coins. The man asked you for a DIME, not the TIME. Here, look. This silver ten-cent coin is what Americans call a dime. And this other one, for five-cents, is called a nickel.

Maybe I should go back and apologize?

"Um Gottes willen, nein!" Walter yelled as he quickly led me down the stairs to the station.

****

Half an hour before my bus was scheduled to leave, Walter and I had just finished a light supper in a restaurant on West 42nd Street, a block away from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Although it was unlikely that we would ever see each other again, we exchanged our German home addresses, and I also gave Walter the address of the Proctor family in San Anselmo. Then we walked together to the Continental Trailways departure area where the silver bus with the red stripe that would be my home for the next eighty-four hours was waiting.

After thanking Walter, I climbed on board and found a window seat on the left side towards the back of the bus. Considering that I was about to spend the next three and a half days in that seat, I was certainly travelling light. My suitcase and my trunk were safely stowed away somewhere underneath the bus and, other than the documents and money that I was carrying in a flat leather pouch hidden underneath my shirt, the only other items I had on board were my toilet articles, a small German-English dictionary, a notebook, and a pen, all of which fit into a small briefcase that was stashed into the seat pocket in front of me.

Soon after the bus pulled out of the Port Authority, we drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged in the State of New Jersey. Good evening, folks! said a friendly voice over the loudspeaker. This is your driver speaking. If you want a last glimpse of the Manhattan skyline, here’s your chance. The sun was starting to set in the West, but behind me midtown New York glimmered in an unearthly reddish light. How could anyone live in a place like that, I wondered? No trees, just jostling crowds surrounded by forbidding towers of concrete. After taking in the view, I settled back in my seat and stretched out my long legs as best I could. The driver dimmed the lights in the bus forcing several passengers to turn on their overhead reading lamps. I fell asleep dreaming of a new life in sunny California.

****

A little over three weeks later, crushed and humiliated after an unsuccessful job hunt in San Francisco, I said good-bye to the Proctor family and boarded the bus for the trip back to New York City. I had wondered how anyone could live there. Now I was about to find out.

CHAPTER 2

A s soon as the bus pulled into the Port Authority Bus Terminal late on Wednesday afternoon I took a taxi to the Sloan House YMCA and booked an inexpensive room. After putting away my luggage and giving myself a quick wash, I headed back downstairs and peeked into the cafeteria to check on their daily specials. Only about half of the tables were occupied at that hour but there, towards the middle of the room, was Walter Licht, whom I had met on the S.S. France . He waved me over.

I’m surprised you’re still here, I said.

If you’d come back a few days later you would have missed me. I’m about to move out. I take it you didn’t get a job in San Francisco.

Not unless you call washing Volkswagens a job.

Walter shook his head. Arrogant bastards! With all your business training! If you ask me, you’ll have a much better chance here anyway. New York’s where the action is. Get yourself a bite to eat and then we can talk.

I’ve been thinking, Walter said when I sat back down a few minutes later with a heaping portion of franks and beans. I’ve landed a good job as a jewelry designer and I’ve just signed a lease for a furnished apartment at 806 Madison Avenue near 67th Street. It’s a large studio with cooking facilities and a shower on the second floor of a solid old building and the rent is only $140 a month. Still, I could use a roommate to split the cost. Why don’t you move in with me while you look for a job? It’s gotta be better than hanging around here.

I quickly calculated what was left of my original $400.00, being sure to allow enough leeway to get me back to Germany if I had to. It would be tight, but I thought I could manage it. I reached across the table to shake Walter’s hand. Count me in! You’ve got a deal.

****

Even though there were still a few days left until the first of the month, the Cerutti sisters, who owned the building, gave us permission to move in the next evening. Both in their early fifties, the sisters also managed an upscale children’s clothing store on the ground floor where expensively dressed mothers and children in chauffeured limousines came to shop, together with their nannies.

Our second-floor walk-up apartment had one extra-narrow twin bed on the right side by the entrance and another extra-narrow twin bed on the left side of the room. Between two upholstered chairs, a brown couch and a low wooden table were set back in an alcove with large bay windows overlooking Madison Avenue. Although a year or two later it was changed to a one-way street, at that time traffic on Madison Avenue ran in both directions and city buses rumbled by day and night. It was clear that we would have to choose between sweltering with the windows closed or letting in diesel fumes and traffic noise with them open.

Opposite the windows, a large closet took up most of the wall. Instead of a separate kitchen, the gas stove, a small sink, and a refrigerator filled a recess in the wall near the bathroom at the far end of the room.

You can take the bed near the door and I’ll take the one on the far wall, if that’s okay with you, Walter suggested. Oh, and tomorrow morning I’ll arrange to get our phone turned on. With everything we have to do around here, it’s a good thing I don’t have to start work until next week.

We had just started to unpack when there was a knock at the door. Our visitor was an extremely tall, broad-shouldered Negro man in a three-piece business suit. Hi! I’m Quincy. Hope you don’t mind my stopping by unannounced, he said in an unusually deep voice. I’m your upstairs neighbor. Miss Cerutti mentioned that you’d be moving in today. He reached out to shake my hand.

We introduced ourselves. The place is a mess, Walter said apologetically, because we’ve just started to unpack. But you’re welcome to come in for a while if you have time.

I’d be glad to. Give me a few minutes to change into more comfortable clothes and I’ll be right back.

By the time Quincy returned we had cleared away some of our things to make the apartment a bit more hospitable. Walter sat down on one of the chairs and I sat on the other, but Quincy startled us by taking a seat on the floor in front of the couch. He leaned back, spread his arms out across the seat cushions behind him, and stretched out his long legs under the table. It’s been a long day was his only explanation.

We soon learned that Quincy was the director of a museum in Brooklyn. After serving in the American army, he had used the GI Bill to earn a BA in Economics and a Masters in History. Afterwards he had lived for several years in Paris. In addition to being fluent in French, he even knew a little German.

When I began to tell Quincy about my unsuccessful job search in California, he listened intently for a few minutes. Then he asked Walter for paper and a pen and began to scribble some notes. Tell me again about your education in Germany. You say you didn’t go to a university?

The Russians caught us after the War, so from 1945 to 1948 I only had a few months of school. By the time I got back to West Germany it was too late to get on a university track.

Quincy shook his head. "Is that what you’ve been telling people? Making excuses for yourself? No one’s going to care about your sad childhood. You have to sound confident and sell yourself! Let’s start again from the beginning. What education did you have that would help you get a job? What was your job experience in Germany?"

I told Quincy about my apprenticeship in the administration of an aluminum company, my coursework at a business school in Cologne, my adventures hitchhiking around Europe, my year of service in the Bundeswehr, and the various trainee positions I had in food-related companies up until the time I sailed to America.

That’s more like it, he said when I had answered all of his questions. And while you’ve been talking, I’ve already blocked out a one-page résumé for you. I’ll type it up tonight and slip it under your door tomorrow when I leave for work. All you’ll need to do is have photocopies made and you’ll be ready to hit the pavement.

Should I bring these along, too? I handed Quincy my English translations of letters of recommendation from my German employers.

He looked them over and shook his head. I wouldn’t, if I were you. First off, no one will have heard of any of these companies. And besides, they sound so good, people are going to think you made them up yourself.

Another thing, Walter said. I’ve been telling Günter to drop the ‘umlaut’ in his name. Otherwise Americans won’t have a clue how to pronounce it.

Quincy nodded. I was going to change that anyway because there’s no ‘umlaut’ on my typewriter. He turned to me. So, my new friend, are you ready to be just plain Gunter?

When I decided to bring my small Olivetti travel typewriter with me from Germany I had never considered the possibility that American keyboards would be different from the one I used.

Sure, I agreed. If it’s easier to be Gunter, then Gunter it will be.

I’ll bet people won’t know how to pronounce it either way, Walter joked.

Maybe so, Quincy agreed, but at least now they’ll be able to spell it. He slowly uncoiled himself from under the table and stood up to leave. Well, it’s been nice meeting you both. I’ll have that résumé under the door in the morning. Good luck tomorrow, Gunter!

Thank you, sir, I replied.

None of that ‘sir’ stuff do you hear? We’re neighbors. Just call me Quincy.

CHAPTER 3

F irst thing in the morning I had copies made of the résumé Quincy prepared for me. Then, after sending off postcards with my new address to my parents in Germany, to the Proctors in California, and, after some hesitation, also to Charlotte, I stopped in at the offices of the German American Chamber of Commerce to get some leads. I jotted down information about German firms with offices in Manhattan and I also made a list of employment agencies. Following Walter’s suggestion, I bought a supply of 15¢ tokens for the subway and the bus and set out to make the rounds.

Nothing turned up on that Friday, or on Monday, or on Tuesday. By Tuesday evening, feeling totally discouraged, I ran into Quincy in the stairway of our apartment building. I was wearing my dark blue suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and my dressiest shoes.

Quincy looked me over from head to toe and whooped with laughter. Don’t tell me that’s the way you’ve been looking for a job? he asked when he finally caught his breath.

It’s my best outfit. Why? What’s wrong with it?

Because you look like a damn fag! he exclaimed. Just look at your shoes! No straight man would wear pointy shoes like that.

Everyone’s wearing them in Germany now. They’re in style.

You want a job, right? Trust me, it’s hard enough to get one without going around looking like you’re homosexual. Drop off your briefcase and let’s go get you some decent footwear.

Minutes later Quincy brought me to a Florsheim shoe store a few blocks further down on Madison Avenue. The shoes he picked out for me were clumpy, round-toed monstrosities decorated with dozens of tiny holes punched into the leather. I’d have worn shoes like that in Cologne at my peril. Even worse, they would set me back a whopping $19.95.

The salesman slipped the shoes on me and tied the skinny laces. These wingtips are our latest model, sir, he said. I know you’ll be very happy with them.

You sure about this? I asked Quincy, looking down at my feet doubtfully.

Trust me, he said again.

But…

Quincy turned to the salesman. Wrap them up! he said. He’ll take them.

****

I’ll never be sure whether those ugly shoes did the trick but, to my amazement, the very next day I landed a job. An employment agency had arranged an appointment for me with Mr. Lush, a Senior Vice President of the produce buying division of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company. To reach his office in Lower Manhattan, I rode the Lexington Avenue subway all the way down to Wall Street and then wound my way along a maze of narrow, crooked streets near the old Trinity Church.

The produce buying division occupied an entire floor of a towering skyscraper. When the elevator door opened, I was in an enormous high-ceilinged room where more than two hundred desks and chairs stood back-to-back in rows leaving barely enough room to walk between them. Except for the women who sat off to the side in one tight cluster of desks, which I assumed to be the secretarial pool, all of the employees I saw were men.

A cleared passageway led from the elevators directly to a four-foot-high platform about two-thirds of the way back across the floor. And there, with a perfect view of the clerks seated to all sides below them, were the A&P executives. I approached the platform, walked up the steps to present myself to Mr. Lush, and then, like a well-brought-up German, I gave him a little bow.

Mr. Lush stood up to welcome me. He had gray hair; there were deep laugh lines around the corners of his eyes; he spoke slowly and deliberately with a gravelly voice. At 5'4" he was nearly a foot shorter than I was, yet he left no doubt that of the six men who shared the platform, he was the one in charge.

Well, young man, I see that you’ve already had some experience in the food industry, he remarked after glancing over my résumé. But what we do here may be a bit different from what you’re used to. Everyone you see down there is buying freight cars full of perishable fruits and vegetables from all fifty states and from Mexico. Now, every so often, one of those railroad cars goes missing. Your job, in a nutshell, is to trace the missing cars and get them back on the right track. Am I clear so far?

Yes, sir, absolutely.

The job pays $80 a week plus health insurance and, of course, you’ll be entitled to five vacation days after your first year. So what do you think? Can you start tomorrow morning at 7:45?

Of course, Mr. Lush, I replied. I can’t wait to get started! and we shook hands.

Granted, after the generous vacations I’d enjoyed in Germany, getting only five days off, and that only after waiting a year, was disappointing. Still, it was all I could do to keep from singing on my way down in the elevator. Now I didn’t have to go back to Germany. And $80 a week would be more than enough to let me pay my share of the rent and the phone bill. To add icing to the cake, our apartment was only a short walk from the 68th Street entrance to the Lexington Avenue subway that would take me to work. I couldn’t wait to share the news with Walter and Quincy.

****

That same evening, to celebrate, I splurged by treating Walter and Quincy to a few beers at a neighborhood tavern. As the evening wore on, Quincy regaled us with one boastful story after another about his conquests in Paris, in Harlem, and in Greenwich Village.

Blondes, redheads, brunettes. All races. All shapes. All sizes. For some reason they’re all attracted to me. And, to be honest, it’s sometimes more than I can handle, he groused after his third or fourth beer. It’s like a curse.

My patience finally ran out. If it’s such a problem, why don’t you just settle down with one of them and get married?

Are you crazy? How could I ever pick one when they’re all so different? Anyway, I’m not the marrying type!

But what if one of them gets pregnant? (How often had I worried that Charlotte would try to trap me into marrying her that way?)

Quincy sneered, The way I look at it, that’d be her problem, not mine. I figure with the pill and all the other stuff that’s on the market a woman should be smart enough to protect herself. So why should I let that spoil my fun?

Are you serious? Walter snapped. How could you not take some of the responsibility?

The only person I take responsibility for is myself. Here’s the way I see it. There are three rules a man has to follow if he wants to keep out of trouble. First, never invite a woman over to your own place. Your home is your castle and it’s always off limits. Second, never travel with a woman or she’ll think you’re ready to settle down. And third, never let her give you the key to her apartment or you’ll end up getting stuck with the rent. Those are the rules I live by and if a woman doesn’t like to live by my rules, well then she can just go find herself another man.

Since this was supposed to be a night of celebration, I tried to make light of things. You know, Quincy reminds me of my Uncle Helmut who’s a real ladies’ man. Whenever the subject of marriage came up, he would say, ‘You don’t have to buy the whole cow if you want to drink a glass of milk.’

I like that, Quincy said. "And it sounds even better in French: ‘Si vous voulez boire un verre de lait, vous n’êtes pas obligé d’acheter une vache entière!’ That’s going to be my official motto from now on."

But I wasn’t thinking about Uncle Helmut’s comment as we walked back home shortly before midnight. I was thinking about the expression Quincy had used earlier when he had said: ‘I’m not the marrying type.’ I was sure, as I moved forward with my Charlotte-free life in America, that that phrase would come in very handy.

CHAPTER 4

D espite the lack of sleep the night before, I was up, showered, dressed, and out the door by 6:35 a.m. on my first day on the job. Following the directions Walter had written out for me before he had left for work, I took the #6 local train at the 68th Street ‘Hunter College’ station towards Brooklyn Bridge and then transferred to the #4 Express at 59th Street, arriving at the Wall Street stop with plenty of time to spare. After walking several times around the block to calm my nerves, I reported to Mr. Lush promptly at 7:45 a.m. He was already deep in conversation with two of the vice presidents on the platform but, as soon as he saw me, he made a quick phone call and a short, stout man came up the steps behind me.

Joe, meet Gunter Nitsch, your new man. Gunter, this is Joe Coletta who’s going to teach you the ropes. Once he shows you what to do, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of things in no time.

Joe Coletta wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. Since his slacks were an inch too short, I could see that he had on white socks and black shoes. He had straight, silver-gray hair. The thick lenses in the round metal eyeglass frames perched on his prominent nose gave him a professorial look.

Joe shook my hand. Welcome aboard, Gunter. If you follow me I’ll introduce you to Greg Draskovic, the other member of our team. He led me to a desk just two rows back from the passageway leading from the door to the platform. You’ve got the desk right next to Greg’s, Joe explained. He turned to Greg. Gunter’s the German guy Mr. Lush was telling me about. I’ll leave him in your good hands for now. If either of you need anything, just gimme a holler. He took his seat at the desk behind ours.

Greg also had gray hair, but his was curly, not straight. However, unlike Joe, Greg was tall and lean; his baggy clothes looked to be a size too big. He had the hangdog expression of someone who had forgotten to drink his morning coffee. So you’re from Germany? Greg said when Joe returned to his desk. You certainly look the part. Tall, blond and blue eyes.

They’re gray, I corrected him.

Are they? If you say so. Did Joe happen to mention that we’re both World War II vets? Joe was an interpreter for the American forces in Italy. That’s where his folks are from. As for me, I saw action on the European front. He dropped his voice. Joe was an enlisted man. After a pause he added, And I was a first lieutenant. Although he didn’t say it, I could tell that he was thinking, And look at me now.

"I spent a year as a private in the German army, but of course that was much later. When I was twenty in 1958, I was in the first group after the War to be drafted into the new German Army, what we call the Bundeswehr. We even had some of our maneuvers with American soldiers at Baumholder."

Did you, really? Greg glanced back at Joe Coletta who was impatiently tapping his pencil on his desk. He turned to me with a sigh. I guess that’s enough chitchat for now. Let’s get right to it. Just to give you a better idea of what we do around here, most of the men at the other desks are produce buyers. Say they order five carloads of cantaloupes from Mexico to be shipped from Laredo via El Paso, Texas, but somewhere along the line one of the carloads gets shunted off onto the wrong track. Then it’s up to us to get on the phone with the railroad officials to straighten things out before the missing shipment rots. This morning we’re tracing a lost shipment of apples from Washington State. But the worst are the strawberries. They’ll spoil on you before you can turn around. When we make our phone calls today you should listen in to see how it’s done. And if you have any time to spare, you may as well start with these. He handed me a long list of names. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with these freight lines because they come up all the time on the routing sheets for the missing railroad cars. Take your time. There are quite a few of them.

That was an understatement. There were literally hundreds of them, many with strange, unpronounceable names like Bangor & Aroostook and Erie Lackawanna. Since I was spending so much time listening in on phone calls, I decided to take the list to study at home. Whenever things quieted down, I practiced my touch-typing on the unfamiliar American keyboard on my desk.

Towards the end of the first week, Joe would often introduce me to railroad clerks over the telephone. He had an easy rapport with the people on the other end of the line, with some of whom he’d been dealing for many years. Hey, Pete, how’s the better half? he would ask. "Did your son graduate from high school yet? My family? Wife and kids are fine, thanks. Still waiting for grandchildren though. Listen, the reason I called. I’m going to let you talk with Gunter because you’ll be dealing with him from now on. Gunter’s from Germany and he’s only been in this country for a few weeks. So be patient with him, okay? If you don’t mind, either Greg or I will be listening in at first so there