A Bicycle Story

by Edith Riemer from I Thought my Father was God

During the 1930s in Germany, every child's greatest hope was to own a bicycle. I saved up for years, putting aside the money I was given for birthdays and Chanukah, along with the occasional reward for exceptionally good grades. I was still shy of my goal by about twenty marks. On the morning I turned thirteen, I opened the door of the living room and was shocked to see the bicycle I had admired for so long in Mr. Schmitt's shop window. It had a wide black seat and a gleaming chrome frame. But best of all, it had wide red balloon tires - the newest of inventions, which, contrary to the conventional narrow black tires, gave you more traction and made the ride smoother. I could barely wait for the school day to end so I could ride it all over town, glorying in the admiration of passersby. The bicycle became my trusted companion. Then, one frosty January morning in 1939, I had to flee Germany and the Hitler regime. I was part of a hastily organized children's transport to England. We were only allowed one small suitcase, but my parents assured me they would somehow find a way to send my bike. Meanwhile, it would be stored safely in the cellar. By a stroke of luck, newfound friends were active in the Methodist Church of Ashford, Middlesex. They convinced their congregation to raise funds to rent a flat for my parents, which, after official approval would offer them a haven in Great Britain. With these preliminary papers, the German government let my parents ship a large wooden crate to my friends. Each item had to be approved: no valuables were allowed but they did not object to my bike. Meanwhile, my parents' papers were ready in the British Home Office. Everything was in order except for one last signature. Then war broke out, and my parents' fate was sealed. They both lost their lives in camps in 1942. In September 1939, all this was still in the future. One continued to hope for an early end to the war and to be reunited with one's family. A month later, I was accepted at a school where I would be trained as a children's nurse. St. Christopher's had moved from London - and the potential threat of bombs - to a small hamlet in the south of England. After six months I received permission to take a week's holiday. I had to follow protocol and label all the belongings I was not taking with me. I dutifully tagged my bike and left it in its accustomed spot in the bike rack. A few days later I received a letter from the matron that a new law had been passed. I was now an "Enemy Alien" and could not be allowed within fifteen miles of the coast. Not only had my training come to a sudden halt, but I was told that I had not complied with the instructions and that none of my clothes could be found. As for my bicycle, they doubted that it had ever existed. I

was furious, angry, and helpless in the face of such outrageous lies, but most of all I missed my bike, which had been such a good friend. Over the next few years, I moved around a great deal, always complying with the law that required refugees to register with the local police whenever they were gone from their residence for more than twenty-four hours. In late 1945, when I was living in London, I received a postcard with an official police seal on it. It threw me into a panic. The card instructed me to report to the station as soon as possible. I trembled uncontrollably. What had I done wrong? Unable to cope with the fear and suspense, I immediately headed up the hill to the station and showed the card to the sergeant on duty. "Hey, Mac. Here's the girl you've been waiting for!" Another officer appeared. "Did you ever own a bicycle?" "Yes" "What happened to it?" I told him the story. After a while, nearly everyone in the station was listening to me. I found that puzzling. "What did it look like?" I described it. When I mentioned the unusual red balloon tires, they all laughed with relief. One of the officers wheeled out a bike. "Is this the one?" It was rusted, the tires were flat, and the seat had a tear in it, but it was definitely my bicycle. "Well, what are you waiting for? Take it home with you." "Oh, thank you, thank you so much, " I said. "But how did you ever find it?" "It was abandoned, and someone found it. He hauled it in because it still had a name tag on it." I wheeled it back to my apartment house full of happiness. When my landlady spotted me, however, she was horrified. "You aren't going to ride that thing in London, are you?" "Why not? It only needs a bit of repair and it'll be as good as new." "It isn't that. Those wide tires are a dead giveaway that it's a German bike. The war is over, but we still hate those bastards and anything that reminds us of them,"

I did have the frame painted, the seat and tires repaired, but a single ride in my neighborhood was enough to convince me that my landlady was right. Instead of admiring stares, I got shouts and jeers. Two years later I sold it for a few shillings to a collector of wartime memorabilia.