Chapter 1
Departure - April 4, 1936
I'm off... left Berkeley via Southern Pacific train at 8:45 PM Saturday, April 4, 1936. I didn't know whether to believe I'm really on my way to Europe or not.
As a 26 year old student of Architecture I planned to tour Europe to see first hand what I had studied for four years. I had saved $1000; it was the year of the Olympic Games in Germany; German Marks were at a 25% discount to foreign tourists; I had an invitation to visit relatives in Germany. What more could I ask? My plan was to make Germany my home base from which I would make various excursions. Little did I know that one of these excursions would change my plans and take me around the world instead.
I’m off... Left Berkeley via Southern Pacific train at 8:45 PM Saturday, April 4, 1936. (E1-16) |  |
It was a hectic week. The hustle and bustle of organizing my papers and money, purchasing a Leica Camera with 35mm lens, packing my clothes and gifts for Germany relatives, and seeing my friends in San Francisco, San Jose, Oakland and Berkeley just about got me down. It all seemed like a dream.
Tonight my brothers and sister had dinner at my sister’s house. It was a sort of last fond farewell to me. My brother, Douglas, and I went on ahead to the depot where I purchased my ticket to New York and where I changed my cloths for the trip. I had a suitcase and a small trunk loaded with a suit, informal wear, gifts, paper, drawing equipment and a number of extra rolls of 35mm film.
The rest of my family and friends came down to the station later. Poor Margret, my fiancee, did so badly want to see me off but had to work tonight. It will be a long time before I see her again. I didn't know it then, but she would be instrumental in my return home after being stranded in Shanghai.
The train stopped only a few minutes at Berkeley station. With handshakes, a few hugs, and a tear or two, I climbed on board and was finally on my way. In two hours we were in Sacramento where I had gone to junior college for two years. At 12 midnight we were in foothill country at Colfax, only 12 miles from my home town of Grass Valley where I had lived almost all my life. The train stopped long enough to take on water, refuel, and absorb some more passengers. As we waited, I thought of my mother and father so close by in Grass Valley and wondered if they were thinking of me this Saturday night as I was of them.
As the train pulled out to make the long, winding climb over the Sierras to Truckee, Reno and the world beyond, I realized with a tinge of nostalgia that I was leaving my country that I knew and loved so well; the land of hills, rugged mountains, deep canyons and thick stands of pine trees everywhere.
April 5, 1936. This morning I awoke to Nevada's sandy plains. It was nothing but brown sand dotted with olive green and brown sage brush which seemed to grow evenly over the country as far as the eye could see. In the distance the general flatness was broken by a gentle pitching which, in the greater distance, assumed the proportions of mountains. The hills and mountains were perfectly barren of vegetation and the taller ones looked as if they had been sprinkled with powdered sugar on their summits. It was a strange kind of beauty... a country so full of opposites.
The Great Salt Lake in Utah was the only break in the monotony. We arrived there around 5:30 PM just as the last glints of sunlight were striking the distant snow clad mountains on the opposite side of the lake and reflecting in the deep emerald brine. Overhead were a few sea gulls wheeling this way and that. They seemed quite lost at a place so far away from their usual haunts.
At Ogden I had to change from one coach to another. It was perhaps fortunate I did because I met some very interesting people. As I sat there, a couple of well dressed young women, looking and dressing exactly alike, came in and sat opposite me. I overhead them say they had come from San Jose. Pardoning myself, I mentioned I had come from San Francisco. The ice was broken and we discovered we had mutual friends in San Jose. In the course of conversation I learned that they were the "Mack Sisters" (twins) who sing over KFRC radio every Wednesday evening. They also managed some sort of lace manufacturing business in San Jose. The reason for their trip was to visit their grandmother near Granger, Wyoming, who was very ill.
Meanwhile a young fellow by the name of Joe sat down near us. I had said "hello" to him in Ogden. He had just been released from the Army where he had served for three years in Manila. The four of us began to talk about the Army. We hadn't been talking for long before a young girl named Dot walked in with a girl companion. These last two had played cards all afternoon with the Mack Sisters, so we all sat down to talk. The porter started to put up the Pullman births where Dot and her companion were to sleep. It was only 8 PM and these girls had no intention of retiring before 12 Midnight. They decided to see what was going on in the other coaches.
April 6, 1936. It must be very cold out as over most of the country there was a thin crust of icy snow broken by patches of brown grass and earth. The fenders of automobiles often had ice hanging from them. Last night the outside windows of our coach began to freeze into a lacy design. What few trees I saw look so sad and lonesome and so naked without a vestige of green growth. There is no comparison between California and its neighbors to the east.
April 7, 1936. I arrived in Chicago almost completely worn out. We certainly had fun last evening on the way to Chicago. When the train stopped at Omaha, most of us in our coach got off to have dinner at the station lunch room. Joe decided it would be nice to have some whiskey on our last night together. I'm not sure whether he bought it or whether a woman of around 45 whom we called McCarty was instrumental in its purchase. From Omaha to Chicago our coach was practically empty except for the half dozen of us.
We had quite a mixed group. First there was Joe who was always lamenting the Army "caste system" and how the Army had wrecked his life. The more he drank the more he talked until I got absolutely sick of the story.
Then there was McCarty, who had drunk so much that she began to think she was psychic and insisted on telling everybody's fortunes. Her fortune telling was concentrated on Joe and Dot who were not the least bit interested and didn't mind telling her so. All of a sudden McCarty looked at me and decided that she had seen me someplace before and perhaps I was a detective sent by her husband from Berkeley to trail her and report on her. She called me "sluefoot" and begged the others not to let me get off at the same station with her.
Then there was Dot, a blond of some nineteen years old who knew all the questions and answers... or so she thought.
There was another young girl of seventeen years called Clara who was sensible enough not to take too many drinks. She and Joe did most of the singing while Dot played the part of director and insisted that they tone down so her weaker voice could be heard.
Another girl named Margaret was about 23. She and her mother were crossing the country to Washington D.C., where Margaret had a government job. They were very nice and courteous and temperate.
Still another was a sad faced serious young woman who was going to Kalamazoo, Michigan with her 14 month old baby and mother to stay with her brother. She told me she was leaving her husband in California because they couldn't get along.
Here we were, a group from various walks of life thrown together and enjoying one another's company. McCarty was to leave us at midnight, so Dot took it upon herself to try to revive her from a drunken stupor by the application of cold rags to her forehead. She succeeded quite well and, with the application of powder and rouge, had McCarty looking quite presentable again. Her departure was quite touching as she insisted on shaking hands and kissing everyone. The only one she avoided was me who she still insisted was old "sluefoot", the detective. I wasn't sorry.
After this sad farewell, they all sat around my chair each trying to talk about what they were most interested in, none of which was of any consequence.
Earlier in the afternoon Dot had swiped a cup from the railroad for a souvenir which she hid in my coat for safe keeping until she could smuggle it out. Later in the afternoon Joe had written on the inside of the cup, "You are nothing but a spoiled brat if you take this cup." In the bottom of the inside of the cup he drew a face and entitled it "Dot Hall." On the outside bottom he scratched out the Southern Pacific name (of which Dot was particularly fond) and wrote in "Ausgosh A.R.K."
At this gathering around my chair, Joe presented the cup to Dot. Of course she resented the statements and they came to quite an argument with the result that Dot decided she didn't want the cup at all and threw it on the floor.
Gradually one by one the company became drowsy and lay down to sleep. Long after all were in slumber land, Joe was still going strong. I was awake until 2 AM and how much longer Joe stayed awake I don't know. We all took different trains in Chicago so the happy party was over. I went on to Cincinnati, Ohio.
It was difficult for me to realize that I had known these people for only two days and most likely would never see any of them again. The long distance we traveled together seemed to have stretched the time with it. Stories of our lives were exchanged among us so that I felt I knew some of them better than friends of many years in Grass Valley. There is safety in distance; the fact that we would never meet families or friends or each other again meant that our deepest secrets were safe. Perhaps the train carries the information away with it, and this train had an invisible but weighty load of the secrets of former passengers.
April 8, 1936. The first scene that made a real impact on me during my trip across the United States was the Union Railroad Station at Cincinnati, Ohio. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that station, but I could not imagine where I had acquired such an impression. However, when I stepped outside and saw its silhouette against a setting sun, I remembered photos and lantern slides of this structure during my architectural studies at the University of California at Berkeley.
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When I arrived in Cincinnati I was tired and dirty. I entered the men's rest room where I rented a private bathroom. It was equipped with hot shower, toilet and wash basin together with towels and soap for just 35 cents. While taking a shower, I had my suit pressed for an additional 50 cents. What service and comfort!
Cincinnati was a very busy city what little I was able to see of it in less than 24 hours. Located on the Ohio River, there was heavy freight traffic in coal, lumber and iron and some passenger steamer service with Louisville and other river ports. More than a dozen southern and eastern railroad lines entered the Cincinnati Union Terminal. This terminal was ranked as one of the most modern railroad stations in the world.
I had a good night sleep at the YMCA in a clean, quiet room. Next morning I phoned John Devere, a cousin of my mother, and had lunch with him. In his earlier days he was a successful electrical contractor. He had changed his name from "Piepenbring" to "Devere" during the years of World War I to avoid the stigma of a German heritage.
I returned to the railroad station to await my train in the passenger's waiting room. Still awed by the splendor of the walls and ceiling I also noticed some six or seven little doors spaced equally along each of the long sides of the room. On each door was a track number and to the side of the door the number was repeated. Below it was a schedule of all trains leaving that track that day. Furthermore, while the train was being loaded on that track, its number was illuminated.
At last my track number was illuminated and I hastily gathered my bags and hurried down a long straight ramp directly to the place where my train was waiting. There was not the slightest confusion or delay, everything was perfectly planned.
Soon my fellow travelers and I were whisked away and moving along the Ohio River. At home we often sang the song, "The Beautiful Ohio," but on this day it was anything but beautiful. Its chocolate colored waters were running high in spring flood. Now and again we would see some hapless residence partially submerged. Darkness mercifully closed down upon us, making the river and its troubles invisible.
The morning found us nearing Washington D.C. We crossed the Potomac River. It was very high and muddy. A stranger pointed out vast areas where it had overflowed, covering the lawns and roadways. I saw nothing of the city except a few fleeting glimpses.
Soon we rumbled into New York City. It glittered against the gray sky like a fine specimen of quartz crystals and overwhelmed my imagination making me wonder if it was real.
I actually saw little of New York but the impression which stayed with me is that it was the noisiest city I had ever visited. The subways under the streets, street cars, autos, people dashing here and there, and elevated tramways above the streets all combined to make an unceasing din.
I found a quiet place to stay overnight in Brooklyn. The following afternoon on April 10, 1936, I boarded the "Jean Jadot" at the foot of Segwich Street in Brooklyn to be a passenger on her sixty-second voyage.
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