“Don’t talk nonsense,” he said. “We are lucky to have been included in the labor force. With every able-bodied German fighting on the fronts, they need Jewish people to work in factories to supply the German army with ammunition. It might protect us from being deported.”

“At least for now,” he added. “Be grateful.”

Much as I tried to be grateful, I couldn’t develop any enthusiasm. The factory I was assigned to was located in Kreuzberg, Berlin’s most dismal neighborhood. The people here lived in barrack-like buildings connected by dingy courtyards with laundry hanging from filthy windows. The factory was all but hidden in the last building of those courtyards.

My shift started at six o’clock in the morning and ended at six o’clock in the evening. Father, who was assigned to another factory, worked the night shift. Taking the same subway at different hours from opposite directions, I always looked to catch a glimpse of Father as our trains rattled passed. In a way, I envied him the night shift. At least he didn’t have to contend with those nightly air raids. In the beginning, I would get up like everybody else in the pension, get hastily dressed, and walk down to the cellar into our shelter, the one on the left, assigned to Jews.

To make it cozy, Mrs. Jarz had hung pictures on the walls, put rugs on the stone floor, and installed several cots with blankets. There were books, candles, an oil lamp in case the lights went out, water, and crackers that were so hard that Mr. Ullstein suggested they were leftovers from former sailing-vessel days.

But, having to get up before dawn, I didn’t bother. Air raids and bombs notwithstanding, I stayed in bed. Often, I didn’t even wake up.

When I got to work, I changed clothes, punched in, and started working. Six days a week. I worked on a machine that polished screws the size of my pinky nail. I attached an unpolished screw to a spindle, pressed a knob that set the screw spinning while oil trickled onto the screw to keep it from getting hot. The oil was black, thick, and rancid. Its odor settled on my hair, my clothes, and my skin. I was required to polish a thousand screws an hour.

All around me other machines operated, spitting out metal objects similar to my screws. I kept myself awake by singing loudly; nobody could hear because of the deafening noise. I belted out the latest hit songs and snippets of operettas.

Ralph, who was in charge of refilling the screw bins, heard me singing.

“You have a lovely voice,” he shouted into my ears. “You could become a singer.”

I told him I wanted to become a pianist.

He said he loved classical music and had this fantasy of becoming a conductor. He was a young, good-looking guy with a mass of dark, curly hair. Like everyone on the floor, except for the supervisors, Ralph was Jewish. We took lunch together, sitting on the fire escape, away from the stench.

He wanted to know what books I had read lately.

“Lately? I am too tired. I barely make it to work.” Ralph shook his head.

“Nonsense. Just because you work twelve hours in a factory doesn’t mean you have to lose track of who you are. Train yourself. You need less sleep and more stimulation. Since this is all mechanical, it gives you plenty of time to follow your own thoughts.”

He gave me a book by Herman Hesse. “I’d be interested to hear what you think.”

He really cared. He spent more and more time next to my machine, pretending to fix it. He smiled when I told him that Liszt was my favorite composer and my dream was to play his second piano concerto.

“Very romantic,” he said. “The composers to consider are the three B’s: Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms”

He was appalled that I didn’t know who Bach was.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Tomorrow after work, we’ll buy a Bach recording, go to my house, and listen. You are in for a treat!”

He lowered his voice: “Listening to Bach makes everything all right.”

As agreed, we met outside the factory after our shift and took the trolley to Alexander Platz, which was way out of our neighborhood. When we reached Alexander Platz, we detached our stars.

“Wait across the street,” said Ralph. “No point for the two of us to go into the store.”

I waited, wondering where Ralph lived and what his parents were like. At any rate, I couldn’t stay long. As it was, my coming home late would get me into plenty of trouble. The wait seemed endless. The three B’s, I realized, could just as well be called the three F’s, German composers forbidden to Jews. What a dumb thing having agreed to come here with Ralph. It simply wasn’t worth it.

I was debating whether to enter the store and tell Ralph to forget it when he emerged, flanked by two SS men. When Ralph struggled to free himself, the SS men pushed him against the wall and kicked his face. Ralph never looked in my direction, not even when they dragged him into a van. Then they were gone.

A small crowd had gathered.

“Hey, what happened?”

“Must be a Jew or something,” said a woman.

“Bloody Jew,” another woman said. “Serves him right. Soon they’ll all be gone. Goebbels said so.”

By the time I got home, Father had already gone to work. Mrs. Jarz threw her arms around me.

“My goodness,” she cried, “we thought something had happened to you!

“Come, I’ve saved you some tripe.”

I shook my head. “I have an upset stomach,” I said. “I’d rather go to sleep.”

In the night, I heard some commotion. Thinking it was an air raid, I went back to sleep. But in the morning I learned that Father’s left hand had been caught into the welding machine. He had lost three fingers. Mrs. Jarz said she had given him a sleeping pill and he was resting now.

I tiptoed into his room. Father was snoring; his hand was bandaged. I was afraid to touch him.

“I’m going to work now,” I whispered.

Standing in front of the machine, I couldn’t bear the smell. The screws came tumbling down, forming one big mountain. The spindle rotated like crazy and started to smoke. Looking around, I found a wrench and banged it down on the machine with all my might. Then I sat on the stool. Within seconds, the full force of supervisors came running down the aisle.

“Saboteur! Jewish warmonger! Swine!” they shouted. ”You’ll pay for this!”

One of them grabbed me by the arm and marched me past the rows of machines. My coworkers bent their heads, not wishing to look. We walked down the corridor, into the elevator, up a flight of stairs in total silence. Knowing what the punishment for sabotage was, I tried not to think about it. Opening a door with a sign that said “Private keep out,” the foreman pushed me into the room. Four men sat around a table, shouting. They didn’t bother to look up.

“You heard me,” said one of them. “I cannot promise making this week’s quota if my people don’t get paid by tomorrow.”

I noticed he was the only one without a party button or the SS insignia on his work outfit.

“You mean there isn’t anyone in this goddamn place who doesn’t know how to add two and two together,” one of them snickered.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you ever since you transferred the bookkeeper … nobody.”

The speaker sounded bored. Looking in our direction he asked brusquely,

“What do you want?” I wasn’t sure who he was addressing.

“I know how to do payroll,” I blurted out. It came out just like that. I surprised myself.

There was a dead silence; everybody stared at me. I wanted to disappear into the ground. The angry man laughed.

“Shit,” he said. He turned to the others. “Why not? We have nothing to lose. Let’s try her.”

Nobody said a word.

“Krause,” said the man, “what are you staring at? Don’t you have work to do? Get back to your station.”

Turning to me, he asked me for my name and ID number.

“Where did you say you learned bookkeeping?”

“In school.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“No, no. I swear.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“Here’s your pass. Come to my office tomorrow morning at seven. Fourth floor. My name is Runge.”
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