As to affording, Werner had run up hospital and doctor bills due to his terrible motorcycle accident while away to Bucknell College in Lewisburg, PA. He had a cast over his broken leg with only his toes peeking out on up to his waist. His upper leg, above his shattered knee, had an open wound—complex fracture of the bone being treated with sulphur for healing. Werner spent months in the hospital followed by more months in our dining room—converted to a Loeb Hospital private room.

I had accelerated two school years into one—11th and 12th grade, Sept. ’41 to June ’42. Pearl Harbor was on 12-7-41. Frankie was attending Roosevelt Elementary—he had Miss Wine (6th grade) who remembered me.

So as I think back now, it all sort of fits my father’s disposition. He was 58 and had nothing to prove. No one was judging him, no one but himself. Sure, Mom and he yelled at one another often, but that was his way of letting off steam. Mom knew that. In fact, she would add some fuel to his ire at times.

Pop had self-esteem. He believed in himself. He had good reason to. Leaving Germany early on was wise. To not endanger that exodus by trying to take much money with him was truly wise ad reflected his self esteem. He believed that Else and he could handle things in America. His law practice in Düsseldorf included some representation for American filmmakers (Hollywood).

Add to the wise moves: to rent a house in New Rochelle instead of settling in New York City. That was brilliant! New Rochelle was but an hour away from Times Square, yet light years from the tenements, the hassle, the dirt, the confusion, the BIG CITY.

How my parents decided on New Rochelle, I do not know. Mom’s brother, Dr. Feibes, had his home and office in the Bronx. Possibly Henry Abenheimer, mom’s younger cousin already living in NYC, financially well off, suggested it. The rented house was in a decent neighborhood. It was but a short walk to North Avenue, which had a city bus line that took him to the railroad station. The train ride to Grand Central Station took less than an hour.

It was less than two months that he had checked out immigration and had Mom get all the affidavits so that upon her return (end of January ’35) from her solo trip to Germany they became LEGAL IMMIGRANTS.

I can explain how Dad’s money held out in 1933, 1934 into 1935. America was gripped in trying to recover from the depth of its depression. FDR had taken office just six months before my parents landed in New York. The banks had been closed, manufacturing was at a standstill, unemployment was horrific. Dad knew this. Knew it from his law practice. Dad knew how to handle a depression and inflation which had gripped Germany before they had left. Renting living space had to be extremely inexpensive. Same with buying a car. Even Mom’s two ocean voyages had to be cheap.

Moving from the little house to the Carlton Court apartments was also most wise. The only apartment house on that side of town (the better side) except for another two near the high school. You see, it had its own bus—took us to school, took the daddies to the train station, just made getting around easy. This let mom learn to drive (she never did in Germany) and use the family car. But not to grocery shop… oh no, Pop loved to do that with her. Pop never was one to go to the city early, early.

My book covers our life in New Rochelle plus the confusion that beset me when we moved to Forest Hills in that summer after my 16th birthday -- July 1941. We moved to 7820 Kew Forest Lane Leaving the town I grew up in was rough but moving was most wise. Our country was at war. It was ill prepared. There was rationing of gasoline, meat, butter, you name it. All physically fit were either enlisting or were drafted. All of Detroit was making armaments.

I cannot tell you if Dad bought the little house in Forest Hills or whether we rented. Since Werner had healed sufficiently, he started back at college at New York University on Washington Square near the Village. He lived down in that area. Dad won’t let me go off to college out of town so I got in NYU—its engineering school up in the north section of the Bronx. A good, tough school. I was able to commute by two subway lines plus a trolley (1-1/2 hours).

NYU was not free, not a state or a city school. Somehow Dad managed to pay not only both our tuitions plus our upkeep.

We lived one block from Queens Boulevard, which was a wide (3 or 4 lanes in each direction) thoroughfare. In on direction it was a twenty-minute drive to the Queensboro Bridge, which exited around 57th Street in Manhattan's east side. We had an A&P, a newspaper store (magazines, candy, cigarettes) a Jewish deli, and a subway station just down the street that dead-ended at our corner lot.

Forest Hills’ main commercial street was Continental Avenue. Ritzy stores for women’s and men’s clothes—professional offices upstairs on second and no more than third floors—banks and such—suburbia within poorer sections of queens. The tennis capital of the USA—all the big matches held at our country’s Wimbledon. No golf course, but snooty and private except when the big tournaments took place. Continental Avenue was about twelve long blocks from where we lived. I hardly ever went there.

My whole life had changed. Werner was gone, he lived in the Village, which I sort of knew, but he hardly ever came home. I knew next to no one in the neighborhood. Frankie being five years younger—he and I had little in common. There were Saturday classes most every term, the first two terms anyhow. The classes were cut throat competitive. I had taken no chemistry in high school. That was serious. Flunk one course and you’re gone! The lectures were in an auditorium with 200 students (maybe only 150). All boys—young men. But I was the youngest. Still had a German accent.

Three hours a day commuting—about six hours of classes—then heavy homework—quizzes, tests… and no friends to speak of. I do not recall one fellow student’s house I visited… maybe one or two. No girl friend.

But, you know what? I learned to live by myself. Found out how to manage challenges. Sure the other students were New Yorkers. Knew each other’s high schools, plus PS 106 in this borough or PS 296 in another. But they were struggling too. I was no longer trying to be top dog in any one subject. It was survivor training. A term lasted about 15 weeks. I passed organic chemistry with a “C”. I felt proud. Somewhere between ¼ and1/3 of my class flunked out. Ouch!

Weekends were really only Saturday night. I usually went to the Village to Eddie Condon’s. A fine group of jazz musicians in a small bistro. I’d wandered the streets some. Then come home by one, one-thirty. Mom had a maid come in once or twice a week. She had the worst body odor I have ever experienced. It lingered in the house for hours—almost taking her shape. Mom also had a "Fleischmann” who brought us meat. It was was rationed along with sugar…

So how about the war? It was part of life and had been since, say, 1940 for me. Pop followed the every move in Europe. The NY Times had it all—day by day. The only thing that had changed was there were casualty lists. The radio commentators were excellent. One in particular, reporting from London. Because of Dad’s interest, the war in the Pacific was secondary until xxx (don’t know what that word is). The Japanese were like from another planet. Kamikaze pilots in their Zeros. But the war was not personal. I knew no one in uniform, saw plenty of them, but having left New Rochelle, knew no one in the service.

I recall the summer of 1943 because we went to Jones beach a few times. It is out, not to far, on the ocean shore of Long Island. Big waves, lovely sand—Mom loved to swim. Dad was afraid of the sea, he never ventured out very far. As for me, swimming in the ocean—sand and all, I plain loved it.

Having turned 17, Dad really let me know he’d shoot me in the foot to keep me from going into battle. He meant it… but did not do it. Understand that he was a stickler for “keeping order”. His legal papers, his business papers at the shop, his bank account. But he screwed up as to my identity! All he had was my birth certificate in German plus the verification of same my Mom had brought over. It had me as Ulrich Julian Loeb. Yes, I had a driver’s license in my name—some health records, my high school diploma.

Not good enough for the US Navy. Both the Army and Navy of our country at war had programs to let you sign up to become an officer with specialized training if you were in college. Engineering was particularly a plus—talent the services needed. For some unknown reason, Dad had me apply to the Navy. (It had two programs—V-12 and V-5). Jack Zeiden was Dad’s accountant—he worked with his brother, Louis, who was a lawyer. They called their partnership Zeiden and Zieden. Odd!

Jack Z. came to Dad’s office once every month or two. Dad had taken me to the two brothers’ office in the city off Park Avenue. No big deal… very friendly, both thought the world of Dad. They did have a secretary but Jack did all the bookwork himself. At the time, Dad had a partner (Mr. Fine) and the shop had three or four employees.

I still have the documents, which have my dad and mom certifying their citizenship, my birth certificate translated into English and my (unofficial) name change. I also have Jack Zeiden attesting to this personal data duly notarized.

Bear in mind, I was good at taking tests. Good at math. I know I did well on the Navy’s tests. But I was rejected. Dad, Mom too, were convinced the decision had something to do with our being Jewish. That may have been the case. The Navy was then, still is almost like a fraternity. I sensed it while being interviewed. Other kids at NYU had similar bad luck.

We are in April 1944—ok? You had turned 15. The US is sending troops and armaments to England, the Italians are no help to Hitler, the Russians have untold manpower but the Nazi war machine remains quite positive. I have no idea what kind of propaganda surrounds you and yours. Were your friends and relatives being bombed? Gusti, I just do not know where your home was (still standing, I believe).

How about June 6, 1944? That was when the Allies landed at Normandie. Odd, I remember Pearl Harbor vividly, but not June 6th. The radio commentators must have gone nuts with hour per hour accounts. The newspapers too. Sure, I did go to the movies and saw the Pathe news… but have no idea: what was my reaction? Did Dad and Mom get into it? I truly do not remember. This I do remember: Pop knew it was not the end of the war. He knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Six weeks later I registered with Selective Service. That office was in Forest Hills. “Uncle Sam Wants You!” I knew I’d be called up by the army. Seems like nobody was drafted into the navy. I had turned eighteen and that allowed me to drive in the five boroughs of the city. Yes, I drove Pop to work a few times on Grand Central Parkway past La Guardia Airport over the Triboro bridge.

I had not registered for the next term, which started in August. Most of all that is in my book… Gusti: I was not scared… even when I got my orders to report on October 7 (1944)—US Army—somewhere way downtown in NY City—Manhattan. We were sworn in, bussed to Fort Dix in New Jersey. After getting a uniform, boots, a quickie physical—off to Camp Croft, SC.

I really took basic training seriously. Would you believe my days at Boy Scout Camp back in 1938, ’39 really helped? So did Pop’s foretelling the war was not over… even though Paris had been recaptured. Pop knew the Siegfried line’s defenses. He knew the terrain, the weather. He also knew the British problem with Eisenhower, Montgomery, Bradley, Patton.

I was at Camp Croft 'til early January 1945. I was platoon leader of twelve of the nicest young men—we got along, they listened to me. I knew they were going to France, and also knew some of us would be fighting shoulder to shoulder. It did not turn out that way. But Dad was right, “It was not over!”