About
Peter Philipps
Peter Philipps is an award winning former staff writer and editor of
The New York Times and Business Week.
A Fine Welcome
by
Peter Philipps
It was our first home in America, a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a brownstone in Washington Heights, the upper part of Manhattan where my family, like many Jews who fled Nazi Germany, moved during
and after World War II. After a five-year, roundabout exodus from Essen to New York, I was looking forward to the start of a new life devoid of constant fear.
In Europe the war was going badly for the Allies, but the U.S. was still at peace that spring. My two younger brothers and I would not start school for another three months. Since we had no toys and couldn’t
communicate with the kids on our block, we could only watch, envious and baffled, as they roller skated and played stick ball on the street below. We did not even own a radio to enliven our days. Then one night while we were sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner we heard noisy footsteps on the stairs and loud pounding on our door.
“Papa must have forgotten his keys,” said my mother as she rose from the table and went to open the door. But instead of my father, it was Mr. Geiger, the superintendent, a giant, or so he looked to me, as he tottered into the kitchen and lowered his bulky frame into my father’s chair. Red-faced and disheveled, he had a bottle of beer in one hand and a large black gun in the other.
During the brief period we had been living in this apartment, I had encountered Mr. Geiger only two or three times. He greeted me in German and seemed friendly. But that was before my mother told me he was a
member of the Bund, meaning a Nazi. I was not yet ten, but from then on I knew enough to avoid him. Which wasn’t easy. A childless couple, the Geigers, who were originally from Bavaria, owned the building and lived on the ground floor. That made him not just our superintendent but also our landlord and handyman, and thus someone who commanded a measure of respect, however grudgingly.
At first Mr. Geiger said nothing, just gave us menacing looks. “My husband should be here any minute,” said my mother, as white as the enamel of the tabletop. She looked at the clock above the icebox and repeated, “Any minute.” Unlike my brothers, who thought it was all a game, I was terrified and silently prayed that my father would walk in right then.
My mother’s eyes followed the gun as Mr. Geiger (or “Herr Geiger,” as she called him) waved it drunkenly back and forth in front of our faces. Gradually the color returned to her face and she looked less afraid. She even offered to make Mr. Geiger a cup coffee, but he shook his head and said, “Nein, danke.”
My mother’s calm demeanor did nothing to dispel my fear. What did he want? I wondered, petrified. Was he going to shoot us all in cold blood, or only my mother? What would my father find when he came home? Was
Mr. Geiger going to wait and kill him, too? I was having a nightmare in broad daylight.
My anxiety grew more intense as Mr. Geiger let loose a torrent of angry words, with frequent references to Juden (Jews). Most of his speech was guttural and slurred and I couldn’t make out much of what he was
ranting about. As he talked, he switched the gun from his right hand to his left and back again. Every few minutes he would stop talking and aim the gun straight at my mother’s head.
“You are awfully quiet, little man,” Mr. Geiger said, leaning his face into mine. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” He ruffled my hair, and I did my best not to recoil from his touch. “Would you like to hold my gun?” he asked, stroking the barrel. “Such a fine example of German craftsmanship.”
I shook my head and looked pleadingly at my mother, but she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Geiger. “I wouldn’t mind a closer look at it myself,” she said, as though they were having a conversation about a piece of Dresden china she was thinking of buying.
I could hardly believe my eyes when Mr.Geiger handed her the gun. I’m certain that my five-foot-two mother had never seen a handgun so close up before, except perhaps in a newsreel, much less ever held one. The gun seemed enormous in her pudgy little hands. Mr. Geiger watched her every move, never once taking his eyes off the gun. “Watch out where you point it,” he said, wagging a finger at my mother. “Now I’d like it back,” he said after a moment.
The next thing I knew my mother was under the table to retrieve a teaspoon that had clattered to the floor. Mr. Geiger bent low as if he were about to pick it up, but the chair almost fell over. When he regained his balance my mother was again sitting upright.
“It is even heavier than I thought,” she said and handed the gun back to him. “Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I must get the children ready for bed.”
Seemingly lost in thought, Mr.Geiger rose unsteadily and said, “I have a terrible headache and it is getting late.” He rose and staggered to the door.
At the sound of the door closing a look of triumph swept over my mother’s face. By the time my father came home, my brothers and I were sound asleep.
The next day at breakfast my mother told us gleefully that in the few moments she had been under the table to retrieve the spoon she had intentionally dropped, she managed to unload the gun and put the clip of
bullets into her apron pocket.
Mr. Geiger had left none the wiser.