A good three years had passed since I spontaneously dropped out of school. I could be quite satisfied with my professional development. But my parents saw things differently.
So far, I had always let them advise me, even in small matters. But I had made this decision, which was so important for my future life, behind their backs without any apparent reason. Despite the disappointment, my mother was convinced that I would go my way purposefully.
For her, political considerations played no role. But father saw things quite differently. Not only had I deeply hurt him, but I had also taken away from him the personal proof that working-class children have what it takes to become academics.
Father’s experiences as a soldier in Poland and France, but especially his often-life-threatening collaboration with many foreign workers forcibly deported by the Nazis during the last years of the war, had made him an avowed Marxist.
He was convinced that only a well-educated workforce was capable of building a new internationally peaceful society. Because of this conviction, my dropping out of school hit him particularly hard. When I started at the plant as an unskilled worker, Father had long been active as an honorary trade unionist and was quite well known. His influence would have been enough to get me a more favorable job.
But that was not his way. His point of view was, ‘If you jump in at the deep end, you have to know how to swim.’ Nevertheless, I am sure that he was secretly watching my progress and despite the disappointment I had caused him, he was a little proud of his son after all.
I-75, which was the large, central maintenance workshop whose employees had to ensure the continuous and smooth generation of electricity in the two plant-owned power plants. Almost all technical professions were represented here, from rough blacksmiths to precision mechanics.
The equipment with tools and machines was unparalleled. From heavy chain hoists and sledgehammers to micrometers, everything was available, as well as planing, milling, and turning machines of all sizes. This versatility appealed to me; here one could gain experience and constantly learn something new.
However, I had vastly underestimated the inconvenience of the work, especially in the boiler house. It got warmer and dustier from floor to floor. Working temperatures of up to 122 °F and often above were commonplace. The impregnated welder’s suit turned white from sweating out salt and became unpleasantly stiff.
The cotton jacket was a year-round companion despite the heat in the power plant. The enormous temperature differences made the body shiver when one stepped out of the boiler house into the open air after hours. After such work, one was glad to be able to weld again in the workshop or on the pipe bridge at normal temperatures. But my first litmus test caught me completely off-guard.
In the winter of 1956, a cold spell with grim frost caused all rivers to freeze to the depths. The pumping stations were no longer able to supply the plant with sufficient industrial water, and production came to a standstill. Water had to be brought in, and above all quickly; every minute was precious. In a frantic rush, trucks transported large pipes and unloaded them across the field in front of the deep wells in the floodplain all the way to the plant.
Fitters, welders, and many assistants assembled a kilometer-long pipeline. Day and night, in bone-hard frost, we welded the pipe sections together until the water could finally flow. Even today I have great respect for the organizers of this action. Even kitchen staff was on hand to provide hot drinks and warm food for all involved.
After a year or two, the rusty pipeline still crossed the steel arched bridge that spanned the river. Now the large pipeline was no longer needed, but as a precaution, it was left in place, because no one knew what Jack Frost was up to next winter. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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