The sixth post-war summer had grown weary, and the great vacations were coming to an end. Curious and full of expectation, I set off for my new school.
In a building made of gray ashlars with high arched windows, which had survived the bombing without damage, I found class 11a. The room was full of young people standing together in groups, talking loudly and excitedly. No one noticed me.
Lost, I stood among the many strange students, not knowing what to do. Following a sudden inspiration, I left the classroom before the bell rang for the first lesson. I was not aware that this decision would give my life a completely new and unknown direction.
I took the intercity train to the chemical plant without knowing what I was actually doing there. I felt as if a foreign power was directing me. A sign saying ‘Kaderabteilung’ (cadre department) called me back to reality. I wanted to drop out of school and look for a job. Determined, I entered the personnel office. The clerk behind the desk asked for my personal data and my profession.
I didn’t have one. He did not ask about my schooling. But I understood immediately. If I wanted to make it in the working world, I needed a profession. For me, that was the first, almost humiliating realization. What kind of work did I want to do, the man asked. I shrugged my shoulders.
He looked at a list, described a piece of paper, which he passed to me with the following remark: ‘First to the plant security, there you’ll find out everything else.’ A friendly uniformed officer noted my name, the time, and the destination of my visit: D32.
Before that, I had to undergo a thorough fitness examination in the plant’s own outpatient clinic, and next door in the communal toilet, a toilet attendant assigned me a sheet metal locker with a three-digit number, with the remark that I should memorize the locker number well, otherwise I would not be able to find my locker again in the large toilet.
It had become noon when I finally reached the mysterious building D32. In a large, unadorned, and very dusty office sat behind a massive desk a burly man in his late fifties, probably my future employer. He checked the walk-in slip and nodded his head in satisfaction.
Somewhat apart, next to a typewriter, sat a lady who had long since passed the zenith of her youth. In her very colorful summer dress, ringed, chain-wrapped and with bright red lips, she looked like a lost bird of paradise in a sooty train station concourse in the unadorned, dingy office.
My future boss addressed me in cozy Swabian: ‘You come as called, Bübele. I hope you’ll stay and become a chamber cleaner.’ He didn’t expect an answer, waved at the bird of paradise, which immediately flew up and gave me a friendly nod. The lady led me into a huge hall, as big as a soccer field. On the upper floor, she introduced me to my future supervisor, who was now called ‘Brigadier.’
As work colleagues, we immediately addressed each other by our first names. Without further ado, my future supervisor went about his business and gave me a concise explanation of the production system and the workflow. The bird of paradise stalked off. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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