The gas station was owned by a man named Mr. Konir, who spoke Czech fluently. It was near the center of Vienna, though quite a walk from the Baden train station — we called the train to Traiskirchen in Czech “Badenka”, since Baden was the end station. The gas station was in the courtyard of a building block that had 2 exits. There was a room where the gas station attendants waited, and there was an office where Mr. Konir sat in a white coat greeting customers. Next to the office was a car bay with an underground area where the mechanic could do oil changes and work under the car, and next to that was another bay with a drive-on lift and pressure water hose hookups on each side. That was where we washed cars. Most of the time we washed the outside of the car and also lifted it to wash the underside. Some cars we had to wax and sometimes we had to apply an oil-type undercoating to protect against road salt in winter. The courtyard had enough room to park about 24 cars and on average we washed 1 car every half hour. Mr. Konir had one supervisor, Hans, who did not speak Czech and who kept everything running smoothly. All tips were shared equally between all of us. On Saturdays around 2PM, when there were no more scheduled cars, we had to clean everything spotlessly. Mr. Konir called this “Zammaramma” — supposedly a Czech nickname for the big household cleanup, from old Czech households.

Mr. Konir was around 40 years old. He told me he had been a Nazi and that after the war he was held in captivity under British control. After he was released, the Austrian government gave him the gas station, a license for one taxi in Vienna, and a clothing cleaner store. His wife ran the cleaner business. He had a young son who sometimes came to the gas station and had a French language teacher come each week for private lessons.

When I found out about his Nazi background I almost quit. I told him that my father would turn in his grave knowing I was working for a former Nazi, since my father had fought against the Nazis underground in Czechoslovakia. Mr. Konir told me he had been a young kid who did not know anything and had fallen for Nazi propaganda, and that he would never do that again knowing what he now knew. I accepted that and stayed.

From the beginning I told Mr. Konir everything about my plans — that I was emigrating first to Australia and later decided on the USA. He respected that. Emil and Jirka pretended they were staying in Austria, since they thought he would not hire them if he knew they were planning to leave. I did not care and I was determined not to lie about anything after having to pretend and lie about everything in Czechoslovakia.

There was also an older, upper-middle-aged lady who came in once in a while to help with washing cars, Mrs. Radesicova. She had a nephew about my age who came to visit her sometimes. He hated anyone who was Czech and was very unpleasant to us. She explained that after the war, when he was about 5 years old, his family had to leave Czechoslovakia since they were considered German, and as they were marching out, Czech people were spitting at them. I had a lot to think about when I heard that, since my father had always told me that the only good German was a dead German, and my father himself had been involved in the Czech government’s expulsion of Germans from Czechoslovakia after the war.

In the summer when business was slow, Mr. Konir drummed up new work fixing tires and such and told me that he and I would always find a way to have work and get paid. He tried to talk me into staying in Austria permanently and warned me that life in the USA could be tough. One time he brought in a Czech speaking friend who had a business with vending machines and amusement machines and who wanted to give me a job servicing and repairing them. I was determined to leave Europe and declined. Mr. Konir also found the person who sold me my moped, a Pony II, which gave me a lot of freedom getting around Vienna.

At the end, just before I left, Mr. Konir gave me one month’s pay as a Christmas bonus and another month’s pay as a departure bonus and told me that if I ever needed to come back to Austria for any reason he would have a job for me. Unfortunately my life got too busy and I never had a chance to talk to him again. He was a good man.

One afternoon a woman appeared at the gas station asking for me. I came outside and she immediately launched into a long speech about what a bad person I was for leaving my mother after my father had died. After she finished scolding me she explained that she lived in Vienna, was an Austrian citizen, and was some relative of my uncle Josef Bartos, the husband of my mother’s sister. She was able to travel to Czechoslovakia and asked me to send some money and some specific tools back for my uncle. Once she calmed down about blaming me, she gave me her address and also the address of another relative of theirs living near Vienna. At some point I did ride out to see the other relatives on my moped. They were an old couple living in a single house and it became very apparent that they were mainly concerned I would ask them for money. I explained that I did not need anything and just wanted to meet them. I never went back.