A Fine Welcome

Pete Philipps —

We had been in America only a few weeks and living on the third floor of a walkup brownstone on West 188^th Street in Manhattan. In Europe the war was going badly for the Allies, but the U.S. was still at peace. It was summer, and my two younger brothers and I had not yet been enrolled in school. With no toys of our own, and unable to communicate with the kids in the neighborhood, we could only watch, envious and baffled, as they played stickball and ring-a-levio on the street below. There was little for us in the way of entertainment (we did not yet own a radio), much less excitement—until the night we were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner when the superintendent, Mr. Geiger (not his real name), lumbered noisily upstairs and pounded on our door.

I can only imagine the terror the pounding must have struck in my mother’s heart, especially because my father wasn’t home yet. (We learned later that he had taken the wrong subway train and couldn’t alert us because we had no phone.)

The pounding continued until my mother finally got up and let Mr. Geiger in. I was only nine but could tell that he was drunk—and holding a gun. Red-faced and disheveled, he lowered himself into the one empty kitchen chair without a look around or a greeting. My mother looked deathly pale, and by now we all had stopped eating. My brothers were clueless; they seemed to think it was all some sort of game. I was terrified and silently prayed that my father would walk in at that instant. “My husband should be here any minute,” said my mother as though she had read my mind. She looked at the clock above the icebox and repeated, “Any minute.” 

The Geigers, a childless couple from Bavaria, owned the building and lived on the ground floor. That made him not only our superintendent but also the landlord and all-around handyman. The few times I had passed Mr.Geiger in the hallway he greeted me in German and seemed nice enough. But that was before my mother explained that he was a member of the Bund, meaning a Nazi. After that I steered clear of him.

My mother’s eyes followed the gun as Mr. Geiger (“Herr Geiger,” as she called him) waved it back and forth in front of our faces. I can only guess what went through her mind. Gradually her color returned and she acted as if the superintendent had stopped by for a social visit. She even offered to make him some coffee, which he declined.

Petrified, I didn’t know what to expect, especially when he began to rant about Jews. What did he want? Would he shoot us all in cold blood, or only my mother? What would my father find when he came home? Was this man going to wait around and kill him, too? 

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. She looked stoically back at him.

 “You are awfully quiet, little man,” he said, leaning his face almost into mine. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” He ruffled my hair and I shook my head. “Would you like to hold my gun?” he asked, stroking the barrel. “Such a fine example of German craftsmanship.”

I again shook my head and looked pleadingly at my mother, but her eyes were 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 she was thinking of buying.

I could hardly believe it when he handed the gun to her across the table. I’m sure my mother had never seen a handgun up close before, much less held one. The gun seemed enormous in her pudgy little hands, but also less menacing. 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.” 

The next thing I knew my mother was under the table to retrieve a teaspoon that had clattered to the floor. Mr. Geiger got up in a vain attempt to help her retrieve it, only to stumble and grab the table to keep from falling. Back in her chair, my mother said, “It is even heavier than I thought,” and handed the gun back. “Now I must get the children ready for bed.” 

Luckily Mr. Geiger got the hint. “I do have a terrible headache,” he said, “and it is getting late.” He rose unsteadily and slowly made his way to the door. A look of triumph came over my mother’s face after closing the door behind him. By the time my father came home my brothers and I were asleep.

The next day at breakfast my mother told us she had deliberately dropped the spoon and that in the few seconds she was under the table had managed to unload the gun and drop the clip of bullets into a pocket of her apron.