Okkupation

Okkupation

By Laurence Ramsey

© 2013 Laurence Ramsey. All rights reserved.

Published by The Gorgonheand Press at Smashwords.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental

Contents

Introduction

Friday September 17th 1943

Monday September 20th 1943

Tuesday September 21st 1943

Wednesday September 22nd 1943

Thursday September 23rd 1943

Friday September 24th 1943

Saturday September 25th 1943

Historical Background

Introduction

The following document consists of the partially edited transcript of a recording made during the summer of 1987. This recording was undertaken as part of the University of Southern California's ongoing Oral History Project, which was begun by Dr Carlos Castenada (my famous predecessor) in 1973. The University is committed to preserving the living heritage of Californians and this project endeavors to archive their stories (told in their own voices) for future generations. We aim to safeguard and store in digital form the otherwise forgotten minutiae clustering around the daily life of individuals, families and communities. Only then can future generations of Americans really understand their past (which is, of course, our present). The subject of this particular interview was a white male American in his mid-seventies. He was of Anglo descent. At the time of the recording he was resident in a home for senior citizens located in Santa Barbara although for most of his adult life he had lived in the Greater Los Angeles area. Despite the potential significance of this interview it was overlooked at the time: possibly because the research student taping it doubted the veracity of the subject or perhaps felt a personal animosity towards him. It was only recently during a re cataloging and transcription exercise that the tape was found and played for the first time in over twenty years. Alas, it was too late for a follow up interview with the subject - he passed away at the retirement home in 1993.

Much of the interview consisted of the subject reading from the detailed notes he had prepared, chiefly from an account which he had written soon after the events. He claimed that he had been planning to write a book based on these resources and regretted that he had never gotten round to it. A certain amount of literary polishing of the material is apparent but the real voice of the subject still shines through, as well as something of his character - rough, homespun and superficially tough but with a strange form of cynical integrity. This is coupled with a fair degree of urbanity and education.

It should be noted that although the subject's claims may at first sight appear to be incredible, the facts which he details during the course of the interview seem to match the generally accepted historical narrative. Where specific facts can be verified - primarily those relating to named individuals or matters of public record - they are not inconsistent with the remarkable premise that the subject was telling the truth.

Until further research is complete, I will have to leave it up to the reader to decide whether or not this was the case. If this account is a factual one, it casts a new light on one of the most significant and hitherto enigmatic events of the Occupation period.

Professor Cristine Fernandez-Torres,

Department of Contemporary History and Urban Anthropology,

University of Southern California, Los Angeles, May 2013.

Friday September 17th 1943

That's a neat little tape recorder Sonny. It uses those new-fangled transistors, huh? Well. I'll be... Wish I'd had one of those back in my day, life would have been a lot easier. Did you bring the booze like I asked? Where is it? OK, after I've told you my story then. Fair's fair - you scratch my back and so on... What did you say this was for again, an oral history project? What in heck... Oh sorry, I didn't realize you were recording. That gizmo is kinda quiet. Where's the mike... the microphone? Yeah, behind those little slots? That's clever.

OK then. The events which I am going to tell you about took place four decades back but I still remember most of them like it was yesterday. That's the strange thing about growing old - I can remember things I did or said from years ago but I can't remember what I ate for breakfast this morning. Well, I suppose I can, if I look down at the stains on the front of my shirt. The staff in this place never clean you up properly: Young people are so lazy nowadays. Present company excepted, of course. You look like a diligent young fella despite the long hair - scurrying about with your tape machine and talking to us old fools. When I heard you were coming, I dug out some notes - just to get the dates and places clear in my head. Memory is a strange thing, it comes and goes. It's better to write stuff down when you remember it, you never know when it's gonna be gone again. Some of these notes go back years, to the time we're talking about. The quality of the paper was better back then, like this paper here - have you ever noticed that? I was always methodical about writing things down, you had to be in my line of work. I just wasn't so good at filing. I guess I'm untidy by nature. My late wife always said... Never mind, where was I? Oh yes. Like I was saying, it all started one Friday towards the end of September 1943, just over a year after the war ended.

In those days I used to live a bachelor's life in a residential apartment at the Bristol Hotel. Do you know the place? A good central location but it has gone downhill nowadays, along with the rest of Los Angeles. Even back then you could describe the place as either spartan or seedy depending on how charitable you were feeling but at least I had somewhere that I could call home. That morning I awoke with a mouth that felt like I had been force-fed sandpaper. The daylight streaming through the window triggered a hammering pain in my head. This got worse when I tried to move so I lay still for a few minutes, listening to the dull groan of the traffic outside on West Eighth Street. I promised myself Never Again but without much conviction. I meant it then but in an hour it would be as empty as the promises you give to some broad in the morning just to get rid of her.

Slowly, fragments of the previous evening returned to mock me. I had attended Bernie Ohls' leaving shindig at Vincent's Bar. He had just been given the bum's rush from the District Attorney's office and we'd been out drowning his sorrows until the wee small hours together with a bunch of his pals. I remember a long discussion with them about the relative merits of Gibsons compared to Martinis. Both drinks are the same except one has a cocktail onion and the other an olive so I guess it was a fairly pointless debate. My jaw ached. I remember some dame slapping me hard in the face so I was out of line somewhere. The rest of the night was lost forever. Maybe that was for the best. Remembering things is an overrated activity - unless you're old and in a rest home and have nothing better to do.

I'd turned to look at the clock. It was a nice clock, a Hammond Federal. American not Swiss but still a nice clock. They don't make them like that anymore: Hammond make little electric organs nowadays. That morning though, the clock face was blurred by a bloodshot mist. I screwed up my eyes and tried to focus on the dial again. The mist slowly cleared. Hell, it was well after noon. Not morning at all. Time for my first drink of the day. The fifth of bourbon on my nightstand seemed to call me over. I ignored it.

I congratulated myself on my forbearance while I showered, shaved and dressed. It was much too late for breakfast and a little too early for lunch, so I contented myself with a strong black coffee and the remaining half of a stale Danish pastry. I used to pride myself on my ability to make good coffee. That was back when my hands were a bit steadier than they are now.

As I left the building and walked to my battered old Ford, I was ambushed by the polluted air. My eyes stung and watered. It felt like my eyeballs were being stabbed with tiny heated needles. The morning sun had failed to burn the smog off like it usually did so the foul air still covered the low lying areas of the city, irritating the eyes and the sinuses. That's why a job in City Hall seemed so attractive to most people - as well as being able to make a fortune in bribes, the bigwigs could sit at the top above the smog and breathe lungfulls of cleanish air. If you stand on the hills above the city you can see that the top of the smog only ever reaches halfway up the tower. Down on the street that afternoon it smelled as if everyone had been burning tires in their backyards before trying to douse the flames with gasoline. It was a typical Los Angeles day. The air had always been bad but the growth in population and industry during the war had brought on what we now call smog.

The Krauts were out in force in the center of the city, stopping the few cars that were still on the road and checking the drivers' papers. I was pulled over for the third time that week, down by the Lincoln Street Garage. Three soldiers were flagging cars down near the entrance ramp and three more stood waiting in case they had to use their weapons on recalcitrant motorists or hapless passers-by. There was also one of their Daimler armored cars parked to one side. Ferrets, I think they were called. Yeah, Daimler Ferrets. The type they used to stop riots.

The guy who pulled me over wore the insignia of a military policeman so maybe they were looking for deserters. I stopped by the side of the road and wound down the window. He walked up to the car and snapped Raus aus dem Auto! Ihre papier, bitte! OK, I don't speak German but I guessed he wanted me out on the sidewalk with some ID in my hand.

It was all part of the normal routine back then. Nothing to be alarmed about unless you were Red, Pink or Jewish. I got out of the car and showed him my private dick's badge and driver's license. The soldier gave them a cursory glance and then studied my face as if he was trying to picture me from somewhere. Maybe he recognized me from the other two times they had stopped me. I wondered in return, staring back at him: Was he one of the guys who had stopped me before? I'm normally good with faces but they all looked the same in their dull grey uniforms. He seemed satisfied that I wasn't interesting enough to talk to and waved me away. I got back in my car and drove off.

He hadn't given me too much trouble. Perhaps he was impressed by my private eye's badge. Some innocents always were. They'd seen too many exciting movies. They should have tried doing the job for a couple of weeks and then seen if they were still impressed! The Kraut MP had even given me the German equivalent of a smile as I'd left. I guessed they'd been told to smile more, to improve public relations. Like those stupid posters they'd been putting up everywhere. The ones showing a grinning German soldier, hand outstretched as if he wanted to shake yours, with the slogan No Hard Feelings! and the strapline The German Soldier is your Pal! Bastards. Who did they think they were kidding?

The only people I hated more were their collaborators in the Bund. Especially President Kunze. You must have heard of the Bund. That was the short name for the German American Federation. They were a pro-Nazi group that operated throughout the thirties and forties. There were plenty of them before the war and after the war a lot more German Americans joined. Membership helped if you were looking for a job with the new regime. The Bund had also started giving members grants to help their kids through college or loans to build a house or to buy livestock for a farm. I guess the members weren't all collaborators but it felt like they were at the time.

The Bund leadership boasted that they were half a million strong by mid-1943. That seemed unlikely but even before the Occupation they had been a force to be reckoned with. When they'd held a rally at Madison Square Garden back in '39, over twenty thousand people showed up to hear their leader condemn President Franklyn D. Rosenfeld and the Bolshevik Wall Street Bankers. You have to be a special kind of idiot to believe that Wall Street Bankers are Bolsheviks.

There was one good thing about the German Occupation though: they continued the wartime gas rationing so there was a lot less traffic around on the streets. Although it didn't seem to affect the smog, this lack of cars meant it was always easy to get a parking space near my workplace and there were never any jams. So I parked the car without any problems, entered the building with a cheery wave to the guy on the front desk and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. In those days, I rented a room and a half in the Cahuenga Building, on the side facing Hollywood Boulevard. The rent was a little too high for me but I gambled that a prestigious address would help attract clients. I've always been an unlucky gambler.

The main room I rented was a small office at the back of the top floor. I kept it locked when I wasn't there. There was an even smaller unlocked room next to it where clients could wait patiently until I showed up - although not many ever did.

Amazingly, that day I found someone waiting in my waiting room: a young woman. She stood up as I entered. My day brightened up suddenly. She was kind of pretty in a severe way with dark hair tied back tight to show an intelligent face. She wore serious glasses which I guess helped with the impression of intelligence. I reckon you could put a pair of horn rimmed spectacles on a chimpanzee and get it a job on the faculty of most American colleges. From what I've seen of the students who come out of those colleges nowadays, maybe someone already has. Oh, sorry son. I didn't mean you. You seem like a bright young fella, despite all the hair. Anyway, where was I?

OK, so my visitor was young and attractive. Curves in all the right places as well. Her clothes were moderately expensive yet not quite fashionable, as if she didn't much care about fashion. That didn't mean that she didn't care, just that she wanted people to think she didn't. A yellow Star of David patch was fixed to her jacket, she had registered as a Jew. Back then, Jews had to wear a yellow star in public places - in case you didn't know. They even had to have the word JEW written inside the star, as if there was anyone around who didn't realize what the symbol meant!

She examined me with a cool curiosity before she spoke, as if the waiter in a dubious restaurant had put an unfamiliar vegetable on her plate. I assume that you're Samuel Mallory the Private Investigator? So you're finally here. I've been waiting for over two hours. My name is Rachel Dunkelman. I have some work which you may be interested in. Didn't you get the message I left with your service? She had a nice voice, educated and precise. A bit peremptory, though. Like she was training to be a kindergarten teacher and still trying to get the strict tone right.

Sorry, Miss Dunkelman. I don't make enough dough to retain a decent messaging service so I use Juanita's. Juanita withholds my messages every now and then. It could be out of spite but I guess she's just trying to get me to pay my bill.

Don't you pay your bills on time? That shows an infantile character.

Thanks. I make it a rule never to pay any account until it reaches fifty dollars - unless some large gentleman comes to collect in person. Juanita is ten bucks short of the fifty and can't afford to employ goons so she's out of luck. Please, come through into my office and take a seat.

OK, I admit I winced inwardly as I unlocked the door and led her in. The place was a mess. It seemed cluttered even though there was only a hat stand, two desks, a big filing cabinet and a safe. I guess this untidy impression must have been due to the paperwork strewn around, waiting to be filed. Or maybe the odd pockets of dust here and there that never seemed to go away, just migrate from one part of the office to the other like a tribe of restless nomads. Or maybe it was down to the almost empty bottle of bourbon on my desk and the single glass next to it. I decided the place needed redecorating. Maybe I should hide the booze in future.

I sat behind my desk, trying to look as professional as my hangover would let me. She took the seat opposite, airily looking around with an expression of disdain. Your secretary has the day off, I see. And so has your cleaner.

You insult me. Do you think that I could get the place looking like this in just a day? I let the cleaning lady do a complete job once a week, more often than not. Actually, I'm not quite sure how often although I like to be around when she's here, just to keep an eye on the office whiskey supply. And I can't afford a secretary, not at the prices I charge. The second desk is just for show.

You don't make a very good first impression, Mr Mallory.

I try not to. Just think of the pleasant surprise you'll get when I present you with my modest bill at the end of a successful case.

That's assuming that I still want to employ you.

I lit up a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head.

Lady, it's your choice. If you're put off by my bad housekeeping, you're free to leave. If you want to employ me... well, I don't do divorce cases, I won't work for the Nazis and although I bend the law at times, I try not to break it too often. I'm normally sober while on the job and that's Thanksgiving Day sober rather than St Patrick's Day sober. And 'Client Confidentiality' would be my middle name if it wasn't already 'Christopher.'

She pretended to think for a while but she had already made her mind up. You don't sit for two hours in a waiting room with only a yellowing copy of 'Life' magazine for company unless you have already decided.

Very well, Mr Mallory. The case is yours if you want it - assuming that your charges aren't excessive. I need you to find my brother Aaron. He's been missing for a month and my family are worried sick. The police are clueless.

The LAPD often are. That's what keeps freelancers like me in business. Do you suspect foul play?

I've no reason to. Aaron's not mixed up in anything shady, he's a postgraduate student at Millikan's School.

Millikan's School?

That's just a semi jocular nickname. I mean the Pacific Institute of Technology in Pasadena. He studies Physics there.

Miss Dunkelman, if I were a smart young Jewish American like your brother I don't think I'd wait around for the resettlement program to start. I'd disappear before this puppet government could ship me off to one of the new homelands in the Falkland Islands or Madagascar. I wouldn't even register as Jewish or wear that stupid yellow star. I don't blame your brother for running away and then keeping quiet about his whereabouts - if that's what he's done. Plenty of people are doing the same - whole families and not just kids. Maybe you should let it rest until he feels he wants to contact you. Maybe even think about disappearing yourself. America's a big country with a lot of space to hide in and it's still full of mostly decent folks who won't ask too many questions. Some might even help you. And the local authorities will often turn a blind eye to strangers without the right paperwork. The Nazi occupation force is normally just in a few of the major cities, nearly all on the coasts; in most of the country they never even see a German.

We just want to know that Aaron is all right. He left without a word. Just packed some things and vanished. That's not like him. We have always been a very close family. That dreadful war ruined everything.

That hit my button. Like most decent Americans I felt a sense of anger mixed with shame about the outcome of the so-called Second World War. I don't know why people keep calling it a war. It wasn't a real war. It was like... when you're sitting with your girl having a quiet drink in a nightclub and some wiseguy starts putting his moves on her. You object (just like any red blooded American male would) and the bouncers put you and the wiseguy on the sidewalk outside to settle it man-to-man. While you're busy removing your jacket, getting ready to roll up your sleeves and engage in fisticuffs like some sap gentleman, the wiseguy's pal clobbers you from behind with a blackjack. Then the wiseguy goes off with your girl to make lots of baby wiseguys while you lie in the gutter, looking up at two sets of stars and wondering what hit you.

She mused on this for a while. An interesting analogy. I assume that the first 'wiseguy' represents the Japanese and that his friend's blackjack symbolizes the Nazi's Superbomb. 'Putting his moves on your girl' would be what... the attack on Pearl Harbor... the invasion of China? And as for the blackjack symbol... well, it somewhat trivializes the destruction of New York and Washington, to say nothing of London and Moscow. And Stalingrad, Mr Mallory. People always forget Stalingrad although it was the first to go. Your analogy also makes me wonder how many of your lady friends have left you for so-called 'wiseguys?' I'm a trainee Reichian psychotherapist, such things interest me in a professional capacity. She leaned her head to one side like an owl, waiting for my response with apparent interest. Maybe she was just feigning that interest, practicing for when she could charge chumps by the hour just for sitting there looking wise, pretty and not at all bored.

Great, I thought to myself, she was a shrink. I always feel uneasy around shrinks. Most people do, even when they've got nothing to hide. It's just one of those jobs that makes other people feel uncomfortable - like being a mortician or a gynaecologist or a cop. I had to set her straight before she started to psychoanalyze me to death, Sorry to disappoint you, the tally of lady friends leaving me for wiseguys so far is 'None.' And even if any had left me, so what? Why should I expect dames to act any differently to men? It must be galling if some guy puts you up on a pedestal so he can admire you. No woman with any character can stay up there for long. This is a tough world, women do what they have to do in order to survive.

You seem to have a low opinion of women.

I stubbed my cigarette out. What did my attitude to women have to do with anything? What did it have to do with her? A client doesn't own me just because they pay me twenty five dollars a day. I took a deep breath. I looked down at the ashtray. The cigarette was only half finished. I guess I learned the hard way. Like Adam did when Eve slipped him the forbidden fruit and then blamed it on a talking snake.

There was a pause. I thought she was going to start bothering me about my love life or my relationship with my mother. I had a very straightforward relationship with my mother. I was her son. Instead, Miss Dunkelman just gave the tiniest of shrugs and said Educational as it would be to sit here discussing biblical stories and relationship problems with a misogynistic dipsomaniac, time is pressing. I have a busy afternoon and the streets are no place for a Jew after dark... or had you forgotten? Or perhaps you don't read the newspapers?

No, I hadn't forgotten. Speaking of dipsomania, was that a hint? Can I offer you a whiskey? I indicated what was left of the bottle of Four Roses on my desk. I wondered if there was enough remaining in the bottle for both of us.

I don't drink. Well... will you take the case?

Yes, Miss Dunkelman, I'll take your case. You’re in luck, I can start first thing on Monday morning. My normal rate is twenty five dollars a day plus expenses. Daily expenses include half a pint of bourbon, a clean hotel room and a reasonable dinner - with meat if I can get it. That's only if I'm working out of town of course. If I'm working in LA, I'll just bill you for the bourbon.

She didn't smile at my harmless jest so I felt obliged to explain.