When Kennedy Went To Berlin
Chapter 7 — The Funny Guys
The sweltering June wind amplified the screeching sound of the bandsaw and broke through the silence in Klaus’ room.
Removing the morning crust from his eyes, Klaus rolled over and put his new 45 on the Defiant portable record player that sat on his hand-me-down nightstand. He and his awkward pal Bryce found the Defiant while on one of their Thursday morning garbage picking adventures.
Bryce was a lanky prankster with massive growing pains, which generally left him ornery and angry. However, Klaus tolerated Bryce because he had an affinity for finding houses with great garbage treasures, even when the aluminum trash cans were closed.
“Look at the house, man. You can tell where the rich people live. They have the best trash. It ain’t like us. They use stuff one time and then throw it away.”
Learning the tricks of the trade from Bryce would serve Klaus well. He found an old Mickey Mantel baseball card, a nearly new pair of Chuck Taylor Converse tennis shoes. Several slightly used books and magazines and a few cars from a Lionel train set.
The red Defiant was, however, his most treasured possession. Music was to become one of the most important pleasures of his life. Klaus’ musical tastes ran the gambit from Peter, Paul, and Mary to the Rolling Stones, from Elvis and The Miracles. He loved the Motown sounds of the Marvelettes and the Doo Wop stylings of the Coasters and harmonized with the Everly Brothers.
With a few added pennies and his 50 cent allowance, Klaus dropped the needle onto his new Everly Brothers 45. The lyrics echoed his feelings after a tumultuous night of doors slamming, wailing, and screaming.
“I’ll never let you see
The way my broken heart is hurting me
I’ve got my pride, and I know how to hide
All my sorrow and pain
I’ll do my crying in the rain.”
Through the wind and the sporadic downpours, in between his bruised emotions surfacing through each harmonic chorus, Josef’s booming voice cut through the perfect harmonies of Don and Phil.
“Klaus. Get up! We got work to do!”
The work Josef demanded was not the work for which Klaus had an affinity. Klaus made a lot of mistakes. Mistakes were ripe for teaching moments, but Josef had little patience to teach him. Klaus had a dominant right brain and had little use for what he didn’t understand. He couldn’t figure out the most important tool in his father’s toolbox — the tape measure. Josef‘s thought processes were not in English but his native Serbian language. He had trouble translating concepts to his son.
Klaus lifted the stylus from the vinal, closed the lid gently, and slithered out of the comfort of his covers. He rose to look at his tiny frame in the faded mirror above his dresser. His prominent rib cage stared back at him. He flipped through a Mr. America magazine he found on one of his weekly trash treks. He landed on a page titled, “And to think they used to call me SKINNY,” penned by Charles Atlas. The acclaimed bodybuilder billed himself as the “97-pound weakling who became the world’s most perfectly developed man.”
Klaus yearned for the day when he would wake up, look in the mirror and see his face with the body of Charles Atlas. With that body, the bullies would surely leave him alone.
He grabbed his oversized work shirt and headed toward the back door.
“I put a sandwich on the table. Grab it and come on out here,” said Josef.
Once again, the kitchen echoed sadness as Maria’s presence was nowhere to be found. She stormed out in the middle of the night without a simple goodbye.
Rye bread, butter, and salami were the order of the day, and Klaus grabbed the sandwich through his sadness and traipsed out to the edge of the garage where the lilac bush was in full bloom. The aroma of the fragrant bush created an air of calm. He took a deep breath of courage and a bite of his sandwich and entered the dusty chamber, wondering what tumult awaited his presence.
“Hey, Klaus! I got screws,” said Rolf.
Rolf was sitting on the garage floor amongst a mound of hardware.
“Separate all the different hardwares, Rolf. Show your brother how it’s done.”
Mindless hours of sorting through mangled screws and nails, washers, and bolts kept Klaus busy while Josef rebuilt a rusted water pump. Occasionally Klaus glanced at his father. Feeling purely inadequate, Klaus had few words as each focused on the tasks at hand. Rolf moved the hardware around, which helped Klaus sort through it.
Klaus broke the silence hoping that his father would offer an encouraging word after a morning of sadness.
“Hey, dad. It’s Sunday. Ed Sullivan and The Real McCoys.”
“Something to look forward to, huh?”
“Yeah! I hope they have some comedians on.”
“The funny guys. You like the funny guys, huh?”
“Yeah! You do too.”
“I do. The Jewish ones. They’re the funniest. Instead of The McCoys, how about we watch Bonanza?”
“Ok. That sounds good.”
“There’s nothing better than a good western,” Josef said.
The exchange ushered in lighter air. Klaus continued to chisel away at the frosty cube that surrounded Josef, feeling warmth from their engagement.
“You gonna do the voices,” said Josef.
“You bet your life, kemosabe.”
Rolf laughed and the imitation brought a wry smile to Josef’s lips.
An excellent mimic, Klaus learned to speak English, watching television. He watched everything and anything and imitated all the characters. Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green Jeans, and the voices for all the characters on The Jetsons. He gravitated towards comedies like the Beverly Hillbillies and Gomer Pyle because he loved doing the thick country accents, which always evoked laughter from his aunt Frieda and brought a smile to Josef’s face. Frieda called him “Der Kleine Myna” in reference to her talking Myna bird.
Frieda and her precocious husband Billy Clyde lived only a few blocks from Klaus’ family. When Maria had one of her episodes, or after a fight with Josef, she ran to Frieda’s for comfort.
Frieda named her Myna bird Hildegard after Hildegard of Bingen. The naming was a joke thinking it would be funny to teach a saint how to cuss. The Myna had a vocabulary of over fifty words, and when Klaus visited Frieda, he talked to Hildegard and thought it funny to hear the bird say “asshole” and “dip shit.”
“Hey, Hildy. How are you?” said Klaus.
“Billy Clyde, get your ass out of bed.”
The retorts from the lively bird always made Frieda laugh. Her laugh was infectious, and her demeanor was smooth as the finest silk. She could be the enforcer but reserved those moments for times of intense teaching. Most often, she was the glue that held it all together. The family dynamics could turn a pleasant gathering into a bloody mess if left unchecked; a contemptuous look by a male member of the clan could turn any gathering into a storm of accusations and judgments. Frieda had a way of surgically removing the little cancers that presented themselves at just the wrong moments. It wasn’t unusual for her to use Klaus as a tool in moments of angst. Comedy was her way of deflecting from a conflict.
“Hey Klaus, do dat Clem Kadiddlehopper guy from Red Skelton.”
Klaus always jumped to oblige; any opportunity to play the fool was an opportunity for affirmation. His mother often told stories about little Klaus entertaining passengers on the train from Berlin to Frankfurt. Everyone in the family would get a great laugh out of Klaus’ imitations, except Billy Clyde.
Frieda’s husband, Billy Clyde Beckford, was the American sponsor. The immigration system was such that a U.S citizen agreed to take on the legal obligation of financially supporting an applicant for a family-based green card. Billy Clyde was the conduit for the entire family. He was a lieutenant in the Army and stationed in Berlin after the war. He met Frieda’s sister Heidi at the Hauptbahnhof, which was the busiest train station in Europe. Soldiers of every branch and stripe frequented the station looking for an occasional fraulein. Heidi, who couldn’t resist a man in uniform, invited Billy Clyde to a Sunday Eintopf dinner that had become a ritual in the Fisher household since the war. He was a lady’s man, and all the Fischer girls Heidi, Frieda, Maria, and momma Christina, took their turns flirting with him, which he adored.
Billy Clyde became a fixture at the Fisher home. Since there were no other men in the picture, he had them all to himself, and speculation amongst the extended family was that he was romantic with all four. Various unsubstantiated scenarios of the ménage à quatre would come to haunt Klaus and his brother Rolf in the third third of their lives. All the women except Heidi came to America with the help of Billy Clyde. Speculation as to why she stayed in Europe spread rampantly throughout the children and cousins, but Klaus had no clear answer to why his aunt remained behind. Perhaps it had something to do with Billy Clyde.
Klaus exited the garage and into the kitchen where Josef was preparing the Sunday evening dinner. The smell of fresh chicken frying in a pan and green beans simmering on the stove was enough to cancel the negative thoughts of time spent in labor.
“Smells really good, dad.”
“A good meal for a hard day's work.”
“I wish mom was here,” said Rolf.
Neither Josef nor Klaus acknowledged Rolf. Josef kept cooking and Klaus set the table for supper. They all sat in silence until all the plates were emptied.
“Go and watch your Jetsons. I’ll just finish up the dishes,” said Josef.
“Jetsons!” said Rolf.
“On our new TV,” said Klaus.
A single lamp and the light from an Admiral TV acquired by Josef in a trade with Guido De Pomposa illuminated the living room. Guido’s lineage was from the house of Pomposa, which could be traced back centuries. At least that’s what Guido told everyone. He was renowned in the neighborhood for his tall tales.
Klaus loved Guido’s thick Italian accent and imitated it often around his friend, Greg.
“I’m a relation of a Saint, did you know that little Klaus? God knows I’m no saint. I like my women and my booze. One day, you’ll like the women and the booze too. Or maybe not. Maybe you’ll be a saint. What do you think, little Klaus? Sinner, or saint?”
How does one answer a question like that?
Josef repaired Guido’s leaky faucet. In exchange, he was given the old 1949 Admiral television set which wasn’t working. Josef was convinced he could fix it.
“All I got to give you is a broken television set.”
“I’ll take it. I can fix anything,” said Josef.
“You can fix anything?” said Guido.
“Anything,” said Josef.
“Ok then. Fix my wife,” said Guido.
They both laughed and Klaus joined in.
Guido looked at Klaus.
“I think, part saint and part sinner. That’s a good balance,” said Guido.
Josef got the TV working, but some lines ran through the picture which Josef couldn’t figure out how to eliminate. However, it didn’t matter. It was a TV and Klaus was thrilled.
Frieda and Billy Clyde, with Maria in tow, arrived just in time for the Ed Sullivan show. Maria spent the night with her sister Frieda, who consoled her and lent guidance in a time of need.
Josef was standing in the kitchen finishing up the dinner dishes when they slid in through the back door. Josef took one look at Maria and turned away. She headed straight to the bathroom.
“We brought your wife back,” said Billy Clyde.
Klaus spied his mother heading off down the tiny hallway.
“Hi, Mom! You’re back! We’re watching the Jetsons and Ed Sullivan is coming on next.”
Without saying a word Maria closed the door behind her.
The men took their seats and lit up their cigarettes. Billy Clyde pulled a couple of cans of Schlitz out of the cooler and gave one to Josef. He always seemed to carry a cooler with him. Klaus didn’t like the smoke or what a few beers did to Billy Clyde, but he tolerated it. Klaus, in his teens, picked up the habits because everyone else had done so as well; he thought it made him look grown-up.
“Hey, Joe. You got anything better than Ed Sullivan?” said Billy Clyde.
“Why, B.C? We always watch Ed Sullivan.”
“Is the kid gonna do them voices again?”
“What’s the matter with the voices?”
“He annoys me. I wanna watch without him imitating everybody.”
“Leave the boy alone, Billy. He’s good. Just drink your beer and keep your mouth shut.”
Aunt Frieda became Klaus’ rescuer. She recognized the sensitivity in this young boy, and she marveled at his talent. She was his number one fan.
“ Klaus, dat Red Skelton is on Ed Sullivan tonight. Why don’t you do dat Klem Kadditelhopper guy?” said Freda.
“Please, no,” said Billy Clyde.
“I want to hear it, BC. What is wrong with you? You could be nicer,” said Freda.
Maria joined them as they sat around the Admiral, waiting for the show to begin.
Klaus jumped up during a commercial, stood up in front of the TV, struck his best Ed Sullivan pose, and said, “And now ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a really big shoe, with my favorite, Red Skelton!”
Time stopped for Klaus. He heard no sound but saw the uproarious laughter from Frieda, Maria, Josef and Rolf. He had an audience. His eyes zeroed in on Billy Clyde who sat with arms folded and a pensive look on his face.
How do you please the one dissenter?
