I had had no contact with my father after I left Berlin, but he promised an uncle of mine that he would leave me in peace and ‘Un-committed to any penal institution’. The road was clear and, having got suicide and such out of my youthful and immature system, I started to enjoy life.
I was fired by BMW for ‘Improper conduct towards a superior’. My ‘technical’ training included an unreasonable amount of workshop sweeping and I had suggested my ‘superior’ should sweep away some of his own shit. This led to my sacking and then my appointment, aged nineteen, as a car sales trainee at the Munich showrooms of the (now defunct) Adler Works. I also borrowed some money and bought and sold cars on my own account.
One such vehicle provided me with the opportunity to meet my father for what was to be the last time. The car was a 2.4 litre Bugatti – white and blue and beautiful. I had sold it to a firm of dealers in Berlin who wanted a rapid delivery. Before leaving, and on the spur of the moment, I phoned my father and suggested we meet at the Cafe Kranzler on Kurfürstendamm, to which he agreed. The car broke down on the way and, although I drove like a madman, I was forty minutes late. As I approached Kranzler I was truly apprehensive. Father was a fanatic regarding punctuality. My reconciliation attempt seemed doomed to failure. However, when I arrived he was still there, immaculately and severely dressed in elegant black jacket, striped trousers, grey vest and wing-collar. He was radiating censorious displeasure. Then, he saw the car and, as I extricated myself from it, he came over to me. ‘Leave the keys’ he said, as an opener. Then he got into the Bugatti and roared off up the Kurfürstendamm.
He loved fast cars and was gone for over forty minutes, having driven one complete circuit of the Berlin Avus Racetrack, which is normally open to traffic. His hands trembled slightly when he got out of the car – he was sixty-six-years-old, after all. We chatted, amiably and impersonally, for half an hour then he left. There was no dinner invitation, no further meetings, and there was no reproach for my having been late. On balance, a very positive result I thought. A few months later, in January 1933, he invited his eighteen-year-old girlfriend to his flat, having sent his mistress off somewhere for the evening. A candlelit dinner was served to them by his manservant, then the young lady was driven home. When his mistress arrived home later that evening he was dead. She found him with his head in the gas oven, still dressed in his dinner jacket.
No explanation was ever found as to why he killed himself, however being of the same ilk, I can venture a guess. Father had lived tremendously well and had never denied himself any pleasure, but his funds had diminished, as had his income. His fun was also dwindling as he was aging. Now the Nazis were at his door and he, who had a Jewish father, had no wish to learn what that might mean.[7] So – he exited. What a wise decision that turned out to be in the light of what was to come!
There was one very typical sequel to these events. Father left a letter with his last will, decreeing that none of his family were to attend his cremation (we all went, except my poor mother). The reason he wished us to be excluded soon became apparent – he had written a speech for whoever officiated. In it, he was described as a loving father, family man and husband who had God-fearingly toiled for all those who depended upon him. We, the loved ones, hadn’t noticed. We were highly amused and his oldest brother, my Munich uncle, kept chuckling audibly whilst I got very drunk and returned to Munich feeling adventurously adult.
2. AN INTRODUCTION TO SEX AND COOKING
MY MOTHER MOVED TO MUNICH at the end of 1932 and I was living with her in a pleasant flat that was part of a converted villa, complete with swimming pool, in the suburb of Pasing.
I took an early morning train to work each day, and an early morning train back home the following morning. I had made friends, within what may be said to be the fore-runner of today’s playboy set, all of whom made valuable contributions to my post-graduate education and they saw to it that I lost my virginity. The lady they chose was a member of the oldest profession in the world and her beat was the sidewalk of the Theatinerstrasse; certainly the most elegant location for such activities. Her name was Hansi and she was utterly charming in a gamine-sort-of-way. After the first round – to which I was treated by my playmates, all of who had far more money than me, Hansi and I became friends – and then lovers. She had an attic apartment in the suburb of Schwabing where I spent my evenings waiting for her to return with her target sum of the day. A year or so later she became one of the few ladies of pleasure to actually buy the little shop of which they all dream, but which so few of them ever acquire.
I have had a very soft spot for those ladies ever since. Anyone would, I think, who owes so much know-how in the field of sex to one of them, particularly when taught as gently and as understandingly as I was by Hansi – and there is more to it than that. ‘The prostitute in her private life’ we read in the Encyclopaedia Britannica ‘is as responsive as, or perhaps more so than the average housewife… the prostitute is prone to be starved of love. This deficiency is remedied by a lover who is frequently also a procurer, or pimp.’ Frequently, but not always, as my case would seem to prove, since the merchandise I continued to sell was cars, not Hansi!
Another passion came into my life soon after Hansi had departed for parts and a shop unknown – cooking! However, the damsel who was at the bottom of it all displayed far less understanding than Hansi.
Now aged twenty, I had fallen in love with a very elegant member of Munich’s bridge-playing and ballroom dancing set. Her name was Margarete Busskamp and she was then about thirty. (I cannot now remember what she looked like although I did see her once, a few years ago, hobbling across the Theatinerstrasse – she was then aged seventy-five or so).
In love I was, and handicapped by lack of funds when it came to entertaining Margarete in the style to which, surely, she was accustomed. So I uttered a dinner invitation, adding that I was a marvellous cook and would she dine at home? She would! Of course, had I known then what I know now I would have skipped the cooking. As it was, I counted my available cash and bought one tiny glass of Russian caviar, one chicken and one bottle of Henkel Silberstreif German champagne. Quite punctually, an elegant Margarete appeared at the flat I had borrowed from a friend – supposedly my digs – and the champagne cork popped. The caviar melted away and from the kitchen appeared a delicious looking roast bird. My carving knife sank into it and a ghastly smell escaped from the chicken – I had not cleaned it out! However, I think my German background asserted itself at this point. I had undertaken to feed the lady, and feed her I would. Margarete was bundled off to a nearby restaurant and fed. If she had planned to be seduced she never got to say so; and she was not seduced by me on that, or any other, day.
As I have said, Margarete showed less understanding than Hansi. At the end of our dismal repast in a dismal restaurant, she wished to head for home – without me. It then became clear to me that a delicious meal, served in the right place, is the gateway from the vertical to the horizontal. I swore that I would learn to cook, and I have. The lesson to be learned here is a simple one – if you have a teenage son, to be trained, send him to a whore and then to cooking school – he won’t have a sex problem ever after.
3. INSTINCTIVE CONCERNS
7
Documents have been discovered that show Ferdinand was himself a member of the Jewish faith whilst his wife Ida and Wolfe were both Protestants.