In the Spring of 1969 I was 19 years old and a Junior at Ball State University. An opportunity presented itself and I seized it. A group of students from the Art Department were going on a 2-week trip to Europe to visit various museums, cathedrals, and architectural sites to study the art available there. The offer included a roundtrip charter flight to Amsterdam; travel, lodging, and food during the two weeks; and return to Amsterdam for the flight back to JFK Airport in New York. The charter flight was $300, the art tour, a thousand more. I had worked several part-time jobs and had saved a little over $400. It was pure bravado that prompted me to inquire if I could just hitch a ride on the flight.
My idea was that with a relatively assured way to get back to the states, I could fly to Amsterdam, find my way down to Lucerne in Switzerland, attempt to connect with family there, and find my way back to Amsterdam utilizing the advice in a book entitled “Europe On $5 A Day.”
A little bit of back story here. With a name like Hostetler, and the fact that my father was from a Mennonite community, I figured out that our family background likely was Swiss. Dad spoke some German and a little French, sometimes admixtures such as, “Geh du avec moi!” In college, I took a course in German, thinking it would bolster my conversational German and connect me more closely to my dad. I was wrong. The German course taught me confusing grammar and bolstered my vocabulary a bit, but I couldn’t speak German fluently. So, this opportunity came along to immerse myself in the German language and potentially find family origins in Switzerland.
So, I approached the art tour organizers to ask if I could just tag along over to Europe by joining them just for the charter flight. As luck would have it, they needed more people to sign up for the flight to get that rate, so I was in! I was surprised that my parents came up with a little financial support. I turned $100 into Traveler’s Cheques and hid another $80 in twenty-dollar bills in a belt with a zippered hidden compartment. By the time I rode the bus to NYC, ate hamburgers along the way, and paid for a taxi ride to the airport, I had 3 twenty dollar cheques and change left when I boarded the Lufthansa plane bound for Amsterdam.
We flew toward the sun and arrived in early morning local time. I had eaten but had not slept on the plane, so I was tired. When we deplaned, the art group kids were gathered by their chaperone and off they went on their adventure. I collected my suitcase and started looking for a train ride to Switzerland. I followed signage to a teller at the train station associated with the airport. I brandished my Traveler’s Cheques and asked if I could get to Switzerland on that amount of money. The teller replied that I couldn’t even get into Germany on that money because it was American dollars.
I found my way to the money exchanger and cashed $40 into guilders. Then I returned to the same teller with whom I had previously talked, knowing she spoke English. I asked how far could I get toward Lucerne on that amount of guilders. She took out a piece of string, tied a loop in one end, put a pencil through the loop, anchored the other end with her finger on a scale, and measured out a certain distance. Then she went to a map of Europe, but the anchor point on Amsterdam, and drew an arc across the map. She told me it looked like I could get to Leipzig, Nuremberg, or Stuttgart. I recognized Nuremberg from the war trials, so I thought I would go there first, then find my way to Lucerne. She gave me my ticket, change, and directions to my specific train. Somehow I found my way to the correct train, the correct car, the correct seat. I remember the sigh I emitted when I finally sat down, my suitcase in the luggage rack overhead, and my ticket in my hand.
The next thing I knew, it was late afternoon, and the train was flying along through the countryside. I had fallen asleep, and upon awakening, I discovered that my ticket had been punched a couple of times but returned to my grasp without awakening me. Helpful people and train personnel helped me find the toilet and the dining car where I bought a sandwich and enjoyed a couple of glasses of water. The train made several stops, but I didn’t get off afraid that I would be stranded wherever I was. It was fairly deep into the evening when the train arrived in Nuremberg.
I grabbed my suitcase and got off the train, found my way through the train station to the street, and started walking. I had no idea where I was going, but I was hungry and looking for food. I walked for quite a while through neighborhoods closed up for the night. I finally just stopped walking and sat down on my suitcase, fighting back tears of frustration. I put my head in my hands, and when I looked up, I found that I was in front of a little storefront hotel. I went inside and rang for the clerk. A man appeared behind the counter, and I asked in my broken German if he had a cheap room for me for the night, showing him my remaining twenty-dollar Traveler’s Cheque. He looked at me with a quizzical look on his face and asked in German if I was from Holland. I replied that I was an American, and very tired, and that I just needed a place to stay for the night. He brightened up, stuck his hand out over the counter, and loudly said, “How do you do? I am George!”—pronouncing each “g” with a strong “j” sound. He asked to see my passport, had me sign my traveler’s cheque, and gave me directions to my room at the top of the stairs.
I got to my room, had no idea what bathroom facilities were available to me or where they were, so I peed in the sink, brushed my teeth, took off my clothes, and collapsed into the bed wearing just my t-shirt and underwear. It must have been after midnight.
I was awakened a few hours later by a pounding at my door. “Polizei! Öffnen!” It was the police! I found my glasses and opened the door, standing there in my t-shirt and skivvies. A plainclothes policeman and a uniformed officer stood in the hallway for a second, then marched in past me, flicking on the light and rattling away in German, none of which I understood. In English I apologized for not being able to understand them and inquired why they were there. The plainclothes policeman smiled, and in very understandable, though accented English, identified himself as Der Herr Oberleutnant Schmidt, and that Georg had called them to report a suspicious person coming to the hotel in the middle of the night. He asked to see my passport and my visa. I showed him my passport and explained that I didn’t have, and didn’t know that I needed to have, a visa. Then I explained the whole saga of wanting to get to Switzerland to find my family origins and the hitch hike on the charter flight followed by the train ride to Nuremberg. He mused that the conductors must have been unable or unwilling to awaken me to check for a visa or passport on the train allowing me to enter the country illegally. So, he kept my passport and told me that I needed to come find him at the police station at the Alten Rathaus by 0900 hours or they would find me and arrest me. Then they left.
I couldn’t sleep anymore and I was hungry. It was turning light outside, so I got dressed after washing up in the sink, went downstairs, turned in my key and left with the directions to the police station in my head. To my delight, there was a Blimpy Burger on the corner! I ordered a hamburger for breakfast, used their toilet, and found my way to the police station a couple of blocks away. I entered, and as I ascended some steps, I saw Oberleutnant Schmidt coming down the hallway toward me. He broke into a broad smile and called out, “Herr Hostetler! Kommen Sie mit!” He put an arm around my shoulders to guide me to his glass-enclosed cubicle. He sat at his desk and I sat opposite him. The first thing he asked me was how much money I had. I thought, oh great!—now I’m going to get rolled for my remaining cash by a crooked cop! I showed him the change I had left from the Blimpy Burger. He frowned and explained in a mixture of English and German that I didn’t have enough money to be a tourist. He asked if I was a student. I explained that I was a student back in the states, but that here I was just trying to find my family. Then he said that if I wasn’t a tourist and also not a student, then the only other visa category available to me was “Fremdarbeiter” (foreign worker), otherwise I would be declared a “Landstreicher” (vagrant) and sent to jail. “Ich bin einer Fremdarbeiter!” I said quickly!
“Gut!” He said. “I know a person who hires foreigners.” He picked up the phone and made a call, spoke for a short while, smiled, said his goodbyes, and hung up. Then he jotted down “26 Saganer Strasse, Altenfurt,” and which train to take out to Altenfurt. Then he gave me a train pass and advised it was good for one day, and if he didn’t get a call that confirmed I made it out to that address, he would send the police to arrest me. With a handshake and a smile, we parted.
From the train station in Altenfurt it is a long walk to 26 Saganer Strasse. I had to find a way to cross the tracks and ask several people where Saganer Strasse was, so I was again a bit weary when I reached the address. I entered the building and was immediately confronted by a large industrial staircase. Off to the right was a small window alongside of what appeared to be a doorbell button. A few moments after a silent push of the button, the window opened. A young woman greeted me in German and apparently asked why I was there. I advised that I was “der Herr Hostetler” and that “der Herr Oberleutnant Schmidt” had directed me to come to this address. She smiled, asked me to wait, and returned a few moments later saying “Der Herr Betzold” would be down shortly.
The next thing I know, an ebullient middle-aged man came down the stairs, identified himself in English as Mr. Heinz Betzold, and beckoned me to follow him back up the stairs. I picked up my suitcase and moments later, we were in a large office with a huge desk at one end and a sitting area next to a conference table to the other. He explained in a mixture of English and German that Schmidt had called, and that indeed, he had a job for me if I was willing. I didn’t see much of an alternative, so I said that I would love to work for him for a while, but given my quest to get to Switzerland, I hoped that would be possible at some point. He explained that they usually didn’t offer vacation time prior to working at least 6 months, but he would see what they could do to get me down there while it was still summer. He explained that he had Turks, Yugoslavs, Italians, and a boy from Algiers working for him and that he was thrilled to add an American to the mix! He also noted that his company, Rohrbau Nuremberg, laid gas and water mains and electrical conduit underground, and that since I was so tall, I would start with a ditch digging crew because I wouldn’t have as far to throw the dirt out of the “Graben” (trench). He retreated to the desk end of the room, made a call, and returned to introduce me to Fraulein Meier, his administrative assistant.
Fraulein Meier looked to be in her late twenties and had an air about her much like Ms. Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. After greeting me with a polite handshake, she spoke with Mr. Betzold for a short bit, then turned her attention to me. In heavily accented English she asked what clothing I had packed. Aside from the slacks, shirt, and shoes she could see me wearing, I advised that I had a pair of jeans, two other shirts, underwear, socks, and a jacket in my suitcase. She explained that the work I would be doing required work clothes and footwear. After a short conversation with Mr. Betzold, she returned to say we were going shopping and that the cost of the necessary work clothes would be deducted from my paycheck. Off we went in her little Fiat to a department store where she selected the clothes that would be correct for my job. I had to try them on and model them to her satisfaction before we bought the clothes and work boots. After lunch we returned to the opulent office where Mr. Betzold asked where I was going to stay. Of course I had no idea. He advised that he had a sleeping room on the third floor of his home in Fischbach, and that if I liked, he would deduct the rent from my paycheck. Additionally, he told me he would like to invite me to join his family for their evening meal, and that in the morning, I could ride in to work with him.
Fraulein Meier drove out to the Betzold house in Fischbach, the next village to the East. There she introduced me to Frau Betzold, Mr. Betzold’s wife; and Frau Betzold, his mother. Amid giggles, the wife advised that it would be simpler for me to call her by her given name, Jutta, and to call Mr. Betzold’s mother, Frau Betzold or Oma. Jutta was only about 25 years old, and she and Herr Bezold had 2 children, Petra, a nearly 5 year-old girl, and Johannes, a recently 3 year-old boy, whose initial words to me were, “Du redest komisch”—you talk funny.
In the months that followed, I grew into the job opportunities presented to me. For a while I rode into work with Herr Betzold and transferred over to a work crew van that took me and my coworkers to our work site. After a month or so, Herr Betzold asked if I would like to work with one of the engineers, Herr Kirfs. That job taught me how to calculate how much concrete was needed to buttress and bridge the gas and water mains so that they weren’t crushed by overhead traffic or didn’t burst from the pressure of the water going around a corner of the pipe. For the job, I rode a bicycle, purchased for me by Herr Betzold and deducted from my paycheck, often forty kilometers one way to and from the work site in Nuremberg or Regensberg. Later, I learned to drive a bulldozer (a 93 horsepower Deutz).
The job required us to cut a swath through the forest so we could excavate a gas, water, and electrical conduit trench to supply a budding suburban area of Nuremberg. The team I was on was chosen for that job because our “Capo,” Hermann Koedel, had logging skills, and he taught us all how to fell and clean large pine trees so they could be carried away and turned into lumber. Then with the bulldozer, we pulled stumps and cleared the land. After we finished laying the mains, we replanted the forest except for a narrow pathway directly over the mains.
On weekends, I would borrow Jutta’s Fiat to take the kids to the zoo or ride my bike to train with Der Erste Fussball Klub Nuremberg where my style of playing goalie was novel to them. Some weekends we would drive down to Ammersee southwest of Munich where Herr Bezold kept his 5,5-meter Star Boat sailboat, and the two of us would race in regatta.
I became part of the Betzold family.
click on photos to enlarge images
End of Part I. Stay tuned for Part 2 where Russ visits other lands with new adventures and acquaintances….in the coming weeks! — Editors
Russ Hostetler found his calling as a physician while working in Conflict Management and Crisis Intervention as a Special Police Officer in Dayton Ohio after graduating from Ball State University with a degree in psychology. His medical career included faculty positions at two medical schools, directorships in three managed care settings and a consultative clinical practice in geriatrics. After retirement, he volunteered as a Senior Medical Officer in Marine Corp endurance events operations, is an active member of the Florida Department of Health Medical Reserve Corps, and is a Healthy Community Clinical Director for the Special Olympics. He enjoys building furniture, tennis, writing, cooking and baking, nursing his understanding of the German language, and being grandpa to several delightful children.
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