Werner J. Stamm - Not the Fuhrers Son

Not the
fUhrers son

The True Story of a Young Boys
Survival in Nazi Germany

Werner J. Stamm M.D.

Velvet Fig, Inc.

California

Copyright 2022 by Werner J Stamm MD

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.

Werner J Stamm MD

stammrichmas@gmail.com

Published by Velvet Fig, Inc.

Los Gatos, California

Not the Fuhrers Son/ Werner J Stamm MD. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 979-8-9850942-1-3

Dedication

This book has been inspired by and is dedicated
to my parents, Mrs. Anna Stamm and Mr. Max Stamm.
My mother, especially, showed unbelievable courage
and determination throughout the war
as well as during the postwar period,
which at times seemed more difficult
than the war years.
For all I have accomplished in my life,
she has been the main source
of my strength and determination.

Contents

FOREWORD

The events described in this book are true and describe my and my familys life in Germany from my early childhood, growing up in Solingen, Germany, up to my arrival in San Francisco, USA,
as a young immigrant at age twenty, in 1952.

They include the times shortly before World War II,
the almost seven years of World War II,
and the postwar years from 1945 to 1952.

No events and no names have been changed.

Chapter One

SUMMER CAMP

It was July 1939. I sat between my parents in the back of Uncle Fritzs car. I was going home, finally, after four agonizing weeks.

My parents had meant well. It was true. I was an undernourished-looking, skinny kid. I just did not like to eat. My mother was a good cook. My father was accustomed to good home-cooked meals. Mother had one complaint about Father. You never tell me that the food I cook tastes good!

If it didnt, I would tell you, he replied. That was the best compliment he could make.

Mother was very organized. She had a meal schedule which made things easy for her. Lunch was the main meal of the day, served at 12:30 PM when Father came upstairs from his knife factory in the back of the house. Meals were named by the dominant vegetable. There was always a small portion of some type of meat, but that was variable. On Mondays, it was beans. On Tuesdays, red cabbage. On Thursdays, it was always sauerkraut

Saturdays were special: pork chops with boiled potatoes, gravy, and a special vegetable, such as asparagus. Father loved pork chops. I can still see him chewing with delight, fat droplets running down his chin.

Sundays the kitchen was closed. We went out to dinner. It was always the same restaurant one block away. There was a small band playing live music. Mother had a plate of mussels, and Father and I had pork chops.

Mother and I often battled it out over eating. Anything I did not like, like a small piece of onion or vegetable, or a sliver of fat attached to meat, I transferred to the rim of the plate, often forming a large circle. Mother always watched me with mounting anger. I often stopped eating. When she urged me to continue, I usually said The food is cold. She then grabbed my plate and heated up the food. (This was not easy since there was no such thing as a microwave oven). I then again sat there looking at the hot food, still not eating. And it got cold again.

It was a constant battle. Mother had heard about a summer recreation program for boys in Solingen Ohligs, a suburb of Solingen. She thought I would eat better and gain some weight there, being with other boys.

It was the summer of 1939. I was enrolled in a six-week program, which however had started two weeks before I got there.

Uncle Fritz drove my parents and me. We got there in the early afternoon.

The center consisted of a large one-story building on flat land with a scattering of tall pine trees. The compound was enclosed by a 6-foot cyclone fence.

We rang the bell at the entrance gate. After a minute or so a woman emerged from the building and came to the gate. My parents explained who I was. She opened the gate and motioned me in.

How old are you? she asked.

Seven, I said, almost eight.

I said goodbye to my parents and then followed the woman to the building, carrying my suitcase.

We entered a long hallway. She opened a side door and waved me in. Wait here, she said. The boys are taking their afternoon nap.

She closed the door behind me. I looked around. I was in a large sparsely furnished room with some tables and chairs. From the windows I saw scattered pine trees.

I sat down and waited. The place was dead quiet. After a while, I walked around a little, looking out the windows. Nobody out there.

Time went by slowly. I felt pressure building in my bladder. I had to go to the bathroom. I walked over to the door. It was locked. I knocked. No response. I knocked again, louder. Nothing. I called out, hoping somebody would hear me. I listened. Nothing.

The pressure in my bladder increased by the minute. I had to go, really go!

I finally heard voices in the hallway. Kids were coming. Someone unlocked my door. A woman with a commanding presence said to me, Stand in line with those boys over there!

I said, I have to go to the bathroom. She paid no attention to me. She pushed me forward into line. I stepped out of line and told her again, but she shoved me back.

You stand here! she said.

I could not hold it any longer. I was wearing shorts. I watched the warm urine running down my right leg, into my shoe, and on the floor. I was mortified. I just stood there. The kids around me pointed and laughed. I felt like I wanted to sink into the ground.

That was my introduction to the camp.

I never felt comfortable there. I never made any friends. We slept in a big dorm. One of the kids was a bedwetter. When we got up in the morning, several boys ran over to his bed to check if his mattress was wet. They then howled and laughed and pointed fingers at the kid. He would just stand there, crying. I never talked with him, but I felt very sorry for him.

The days went by very slowly. The food was ok, except for one dish, which made me sick just looking at it. It was a Jello-like red desert with little round black specks like frog eggs. It would wiggle back and forth when I moved the bowl. It was served several times during those four weeks, and I was made to eat it, like it or not. I always gagged on it, trying to swallow. I had to force it down.

There was a two-hour rest period after lunch. We had to lie on cots on a large patio outside the building.

An attendant walked around watching us. There was no talking. Not once could I sleep. I would close my eyes when the attendant was close. One day, while looking around on the grounds, I found a small piece of metal that had been a piece of a can opener. It saved me from extreme boredom after that. I broke pieces of bark from pine trees, and during the two-hour rest period, I carved little boats and other things quietly and unnoticed. I had to clean up my workplace of course before leaving.

Slowly the days went by. A big event was planned for the last day at the camp. A train ride across the highest railroad bridge in Europe, the Mungsten Bridge, 108 meters high, connecting Solingen to our neighbor city of Remscheid.

We were all looking forward to it. A bus took us to the train station. The weather was beautiful. We had our noses pressed to the windows as the train entered the bridge. We were so high looking down into the valley with the Wupper River below us, we had the feeling of flying.