We are fast-forwarding in time to my father’s journey to America. It’s the 1950s, Germany is still recovering from the damage left by the war, and my father, now a teenager, dreams of life across the ocean.

“American music blares from the speakers, our favorite. American rock-n-roll was the biggest craze and we couldn’t get enough. My friends and I were mad at the world, and especially mad at our parents! How could they have let that sick man take over and destroy our beautiful country? How could they have supported Hitler and stood by while he committed such atrocities against fellow humans? Everywhere we turned were reminders of what had happened in the 2nd World War. We couldn’t wait to get away.

My stepfather Walter had talked me in to accepting a three year contract to learn how to be a brick layer when I was 15. I had talked a big game that I would be an architect, despite them saying I was “ein halb starker” or only half strong. Basically, what American’s would call a teenage punk. I had moved to the big city of Köln for the apprenticeship, which had given me experience away from my parents and friends to focus on learning my trade. After three years at a technical trade school, I was ready to go out on my own, and I yearned to get a piece of the American Dream that I had heard so much about.

After 8 months of applying at the U.S. Consulate, my brother Gottfried and I finally got permission to immigrate to the United States. A U.S. church would finance our trip to the United States aboard a U..S. military transport ship. The trip cost was about $150, which we were obligated to pay back within one year. We planned on going together, but as we came to the ship in Bremerhafen only Gottfried was allowed to board. I was a few months shy of my 18th birthday, and turns out I would not be allowed to go until my 18th birthday had passed. I couldn’t stand this ridiculous rule, and hated bureaucracy from that day forward as I watched my brother sail off to America without me.

A month or so later it was my turn. The troop transport ship only had below deck sleeping bunks and I was assigned the top bunk, 4 bunks up! I half-slept there the first night, but could not stand the stagnant stench of the 150 men cabin. Once we were underway, I went immediately to find a place outside where I could sleep unnoticed and unbothered in the fresh ocean air. I found just the place, while crawling under a machine gun platform on an upper deck. It was perfect for me, and besides it being a bit hard on my back, it was a great improvement from the cramped and stuffy bunk below deck.

The journey would take 10 days, and I enjoyed my special sleeping spot for the rest of the journey. Throughout the trip, passengers on the ship would be fed three times a day. But on the 2nd day of our journey, the sea was rocking and rolling quite a bit, and the young man who had been assigned as the dishwasher and server got quite seasick and hadn’t show up to work. The dining area quickly became a huge mess, and upon seeing me in the dining room alone one of the cooks asked me if I could help.

I had nothing else to do, so I gladly jumped in to help wash a big mess of treys. I helped get the messy dining area cleaned up, and at the end of the meal the cook said if I continued to help them he would pay me once we got to New York. Wonderful! Arriving in a new country and getting my first pay check already! For the remainder of the trip, I helped out as part of the kitchen staff, eager to get my paycheck once we arrived in New York.

Each day I would wake up under the machine gun platform, warm and dry, and lay watching as the large waves slid along under our ship. I wondered what lay ahead for me in America. What would life be like in a new country? Was America really as amazing as it sounded on the radio?

-Jochen

Pictured above is the actual passenger list from my father’s journey to America in 1956. If you look at the very top you will see Robiller, Jochen, bricklayer. For some reason, finding this document, truly brought his story to life. As if somehow it was just a fairy tale in my mind, before I found the proof. His name, alongside so many others making the long trek to America to start a better life. Housewives, students, watchmakers, salesmen, to just list a few of the many people who joined him on this journey to New York.

When I was in elementary school, I remember hearing so much about the American Dream and the millions of people who immigrated to our country in search of a better life! I was always so proud that my father was included as one of those immigrants we had learned about in school. Our big, beautiful country, long known around the world as a symbol of freedom and prosperity, where people could live in peace, and make something for themselves.

This was the vision that my father had. To go far away from the memories of the atrocities that had happened in his beautiful country, and start fresh. Like many young men, ready to make a life for himself, just much farther away than most have to go to do so. This was the beginning of the life he would build for himself in America without his parents.

With only his brother, his brick laying knowledge, and a handful of English, he was courageous enough to cross oceans and give it a shot. To live the American Dream! A 10 day voyage, sleeping under Machine Guns racks at night, and working in the kitchen during the day. Working, napping, dreaming of the things to come while he journeyed across the Atlantic.

What an adventure awaits young Jochen! What an adventure he’s already had!