My Grandfather’s Visitation: Family History (III)

My grandfather died March 16, 1997.  This was the same date that my mom (his daughter) died fourteen years later (3/16/2011).  He was 76, so it was not a tragedy even though he had been in good health, just to family.

He brought the family to the US in February, 1952, in search of a better life, the American dream, the safety of the American system–something he worried about living in West Germany, having survived a horrible depression as a child, then fighting in a war that saw all of his siblings killed.  In Germany, he was a manager, ‘white-collar’.  When they came to the US, he wound up a line worker in a factory, initially harassed for his poor English and unwelcome with the family at church (because, after all, they were German and all Germans were automatically Nazis, right?)

The thing is, forgotten by the modern leaders/morons of American politics, immigrants are invariably hard-working.  They left everything for a chance at equality, at opportunity.  My grandfather accepted that challenge.  In time, his English improved and no one ever questioned his skill or reliability.  By 1970, he was no longer a line worker; he was a senior foreman, respected by the other workers.  He was elected head of the union and responsible for labor negotiating and labor-management issues.

He didn’t bring much of that home with him.  He didn’t share much with his kids or later on us grandkids.  When he came home from work, it was time for the crosswords, his slippers, dinner and the evening news (and then I always hoped, some time to play Jarts, catch, or if the weather was poor, pinochle).  Indeed, it wasn’t until his visitation I learned something I wish I knew when I was much younger.  

Now, I didn’t question my grandfather’s greatness.  I love history–I know what it took to emigrate to the US.  He had told me what life was like as a boy in Germany during an era of hyper-inflation, what it was like to fight in war (he fought in France, Greece/Crete, and the Russian Front).  This was a man who won an Iron Cross, who earned a silver Infantry Assault Badge, who survived the winter of 41-42 as part of Army Group North.  All of that, he shared it all.  He wanted the horrors of war known so they wouldn’t happen again, but he never shared stories from work.

Okay, Keokuk, Iowa, isn’t really the most racially diverse community you’ll ever find and close to Missouri, you get some ‘southern’ attitudes/stereotypes towards minorities.  At my grandfather’s funeral, pretty much everyone there was part of the family or white, the men he worked with at the factory.  There was one exception, a black gentleman about 50 (+/-5) who stood silently over the casket for several minutes before going to sit with my grandmother and talking with her privately while holding her hand.  She was still in shock about almost everything–my grandparents never spent more than two days apart in 50 years and now….

So this man told my grandmother a story.  It was about a young black man in 1972 who had a wife, a young child, and only his new job to support this new family.  They’d moved to Keokuk (from St. Louis, I think) for that job–away from friends and family, no support at all.  Well, one morning, he got in the car, headed to work, and the car conked out.  No one stopped to help and he had to fix it himself.  It meant he was an hour late to work.  He explained the situation to management.  Did he get docked an hour’s pay?  Nope.  Instant firing.

Now, maybe this was justifiable if it was applied consistently, but workers missed regularly for assorted reasons, explaining them afterwards.  The difference here was indeed the obvious one–this guy’s black.

The man would now be unemployed, no way to support his new family and stuck several hours from home.  He started gathering his stuff, clearing everything out of his work locker.  My grandfather, the union leader, saw him leaving–since the guy just got there–and asked what was going on.  The man explained and my grandfather said, “Stay put. Don’t move.” My grandfather then marched into the manager’s office and shut the door.  He came out a few minutes later, came over to the young black man and told him to get to work.  He wasn’t fired.

My grandfather explained to him–he went in there and told the manager had a choice.  He could reinstate the man to his job or in one hour, every worker in that factory would walk out, then the manager could explain to the owners what happened, insinuating at that point, it’d be the manager looking for alternative employment.  The manager backed down.  

The young man was stunned.  He hadn’t had a great experience to that point in Keokuk in terms of tolerance.  He hadn’t expected my grandfather, a middle-aged white guy, to have it either (he couldn’t have known the prejudice my family faced arriving in the US).  Total shock.  His job was safe and he could keep providing for his family.

He told my grandmother (who then told me) all of this.  He told her that he was still married (40 years then), said that that little baby grew up to be a big time engineer/manager with GE, Boeing, or something like that.  He said he owed everything to my grandfather.  When Grandma told the man she’d never heard the story, knew none of it, the man wasn’t surprised, he said, “Herb wasn’t the sort to brag.”  True words, true words.

I could call it a small thing, but it isn’t, not really.  My grandfather threatened a full-blown strike over the firing of a late employee that could’ve been easily replaced.  He did what he did– because it was right.  That doesn’t happen often in the world.  See, he was a man of his generation, my grandfather held prejudices, believed in certain stereotypes (I suppose a lot like Archie Bunker)–and yet here he was, fighting for the rights of this one man.  I know why, though I couldn’t ask him–it’s because everyone deserves the opportunity to succeed in America, regardless of color, creed, or gender.  By 1972, he’d seen what that opportunity had provided to his adult children already–an Army captain, a AT+T exec, and a mom (my mom) He had it, his children had it, his grandchildren have had it, and now the great-grandchildren, enjoy those opportunities as well.

The beautiful thing of this story??  If my grandfather did this, if one man stood up in this fashion, then it has happened, is happening, elsewhere…and just like with my grandfather, most likely, it’s happening where there is no media coverage–it’s just a man or a woman doing what they think is just.  The beautiful thing?  One man made a difference for one other man–but that difference helped a little baby grow to prosperity…maybe the grandchildren, too.

Is there a point other than a family memory?  Sure.  You can make a difference.  If we all stand with integrity, do the right thing, the world WILL become a better place.  It only goes off the rails when we stand to the side and let bad people stoke fear and suffering.  I’m thankful my family isn’t like that.