I washed hitler's dusenburg
...e hood. It is these pipes that he was so adamant about having shine. But for some reason, everytime I cleaned this area where the frame met the body, I was reminded of my home, my parents, and my person. I would say to my self smugly, “If the Furher only knew” Then cold fear would sweep my body, and I would try to put my Jewish-ness and my parents and sister out of my mind. I knew they were safe, at least they were when the SS took me away. I was supposed to be proud, I was the envy of my Hitler Youth brigade back in South Africa. To be chosen by the Furher himself to be his personal Dusenberg servant, his personal wash-boy. It was an honor to any German, but if any of them had any clue as to my true heritage, all of us I am sure, my mamma, papa, and sister, would have been immediately removed from this earth. You see, I was a Jew, a secret Jew. I was born and raised in South Africa, the son of a Latvian father and Dutch mother. My father was in the Diamond business, and he met my mother in South Africa. She was a Christian; blonde, fair, and beautiful. My father’s parents were also of mixed race, a Latvian mother and a Swiss father. I luckily perhaps, inherited my dear mother’s blonde hair and blue eyes. By the age of twelve, I was nearly six foot tall and commander of the local Nazi Youth. I was intelligent, strong, and well educated. Just what Hitler idealized. We live a happy life with all of the luxuries. My father was well aware of the rise of the Nazi Party, even in the 20’s, and subsequently became a Christian like my mother. Although we rarely attended the church, we would secretly observe Jewish holidays with curtains pulled. My cousin had his Barmitzfa in our basement at night time. I remember my father discussing with my mother the evening after my cousin’s Barmitzfa sending our Rabbi to the United States for hiding. Our Rabbi refused, and was shortly thereafter taken away by the SS. I Washed Hitler’s Duisenberg By Mark Greening As I lay under the jacked-up Duisenberg scrubbing the undercarriage I could see between the front wheels, over the curb and into the garden, Ava’s legs, and as she would squat to retrieve a ball from his dog’s mouth I could see all the way up to her garden. The summer morning sun shone brightly rising from the east between the garage and a large pine as though she and her garden were under a spotlight. At times there would be a shadow over the entire back yard caused by the rising smoke behind the house. I was not sure at the time what the smoke was nor what activity transpired in that facility a half kilometer behind the house, but I do know that everytime the Furer came from his house out through the back yard, he would look east and say to his aids that were always with him; “That is a sign of the advancement of our Motherland.” If he was of good spirits on a day I was washing and primping his Duisenberg, he would comment to me, or about me to his shiny booted thugs in attendance, “A fine example of our future that boy” to which I would respond (unless I wanted to be put away) “Hail Sir.” It was a 1929 Dueisenburg, white with shiny steel everywhere. It was his prized possession; more prized than Eva form what I gathered. Looking back, that isn’t saying much since he prized his German Shepherd, Gulahg, over his Ava. I always overheard him telling her, “Shut up you minor woman, you know nothing”, or “Either be quiet or go away.” My father never spoke to my mother in that way. The welling up again started. I could not cry. I had to concentrate on my task, and at this moment it was that of getting the Furer’s undercarriage spotless. Where the frame met the body of the car was a one centimeter gap which collected road dirt, and that was the most difficult part to clean, even more difficult than the shiny pipes coming from under the ...