Leon Dennen
DEATH OF A GERMAN SEAMAN
1. Hans Maurmeyer-
All I know about Hans Maurmeyer's. childhood is that he was born
in Altona, the workers'
section of Hamburg, in one of those dark and
narrow alley-streets that are forever crowded by the cheaper grade of
prostitutes and by houses that make one think of some ancient catacombs.
His mother died when he was three years old. His fathrr, a longshoreman,
was killed during the general strike in Hamburg in 1918.
Hans was twenty-one years old when I first met him on the
City of
Baltimore
where we had both worked as firemen.
He had then been
going to sea for seven years.
I still remember our first meeting; we had just left Baltimore when
something went wrong with a boiler.
I was on watch and it was my
duty to go into the boiler and fix it. I crawled inside. The boiler was
as hot as I imagine only hell can be. I couldn't stand the heat and im-
mediately emerged. The first assistant engineer' looked at me with disgust.
"All right," he said turning to Hans, "it seems that the college boy
is too fancy for the job, you go and see what you can do with it."
This was the first time that I noticed Hans.
He was a short, broad-
shouldered fellow; a bald spot, like a rabbi's skullcap encircled the tip of
his oblong head.
I had to help him get inside the boiler. He remained there for what
seemed to me an unusually long time. Three minutes elapsed: I thought
that he 'had already suffocated when I saw his shining bald spot emerge
on the surface.
"How is it, Shorty?" the first 'assistant asked.
"Gut," he lisped in reply, "Fery gut, ganz gut."
The First patted him on the shoulder and I at once made up my
mind that Hans was a fool. In fact, as I later found out, most of the
crew considered him a goodnatured simpleton.
During the long winter nights when the boat would rock to the
strains of a Strauss Waltz coming from the passengers' salon, one of our
chief amusements would be to sit in the messroom and poke fun at Hans.
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