Chapter 4: The Volkswagen Dream

It was September 23, 1934, and Ernst stood with three thousand other workers in the vast exhibition hall at the Strength Through Joy rally in Berlin. On the stage, bathed in carefully arranged spotlights, sat the most beautiful automobile Ernst had ever seen. The car's curves flowed like water frozen in motion, its chrome flashing. The leather seats visible through the rolled-down windows looked soft enough to sink into, a luxury Ernst associated with furniture he'd only seen in shop windows.

"Behold," announced the KdF official, his voice carrying across the hushed crowd, "the People's Car. Der Volkswagen."

Ernst felt his breath catch. Around him, men who had spent the previous decade unable to afford bicycles leaned forward in their seats, straining to see every detail of the machine that represented their future.

"This car," the official continued, "will not be reserved for the wealthy few. This car will belong to the German worker. To you. To your families. To every German who contributes to our national rebirth."

A man near Ernst gasped. Another leaned forward, his knuckles white on the seat in front of him. This wasn't ideology. This was steel and leather.

"The price," the official announced, pausing for dramatic effect, "will be 990 Reichsmarks."

The number hit Ernst like a physical blow. 990 Reichsmarks. At his current wages, 990 marks represented roughly eight months of careful saving. For the first time in his adult life, Ernst Müller was looking at a luxury that he might actually afford.

Around him, the crowd erupted in spontaneous applause. Men were standing, some shouting with joy, others simply staring at the car with expressions of wonder that bordered on reverence. Ernst found himself applauding too, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

"But," the official continued, raising his hand for quiet, "we understand that even this modest sum may be difficult for German families to accumulate at once. Therefore, the Party has devised a savings program that will make ownership possible for every German worker."

Ernst leaned forward, his heart racing with anticipation.

"For just five Reichsmarks per week," the official explained, "any German worker can purchase a savings stamp toward ownership of his family's Volkswagen. In less than four years of faithful saving, you will have earned the right to your own automobile."

Five marks per week. Ernst calculated quickly—that was less than he and Greta spent on their occasional meal at the neighborhood restaurant. Less than a skilled worker might spend on cigarettes and beer. An amount so modest that even families still recovering from the depression years could manage it.

"Imagine," the official said, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality, "Sunday drives with your family through the German countryside. Vacations to the mountains, to the sea. Your children seeing the beauty of the Fatherland from the comfort of their own family automobile. This is not a dream—this is the future the Party is building for the German people."

Ernst's mind raced with possibilities. Hans, now sixteen and fascinated by automotive technology, would be able to learn to drive. Greta could visit her sister in Munich without the expense and discomfort of train travel. They could take weekend trips to the countryside, exploring regions of Germany that had been as distant as foreign countries when they depended on public transportation.

For three years, the Nazi regime had delivered on its promises of employment and economic recovery. The factory whistles were blowing again, families were eating regularly. Now the regime was promising not just survival, but luxury.

As the rally concluded and workers filed out of the exhibition hall, Ernst found himself swept up in conversations that buzzed with excitement and possibility.

"Can you believe it?" said his co-worker Heinrich, walking alongside him toward the exit. "A car for ordinary workers. When my father was young, only factory owners had automobiles."

"The first payment is just five marks," added Wilhelm, another member of Ernst's construction crew. "I spend more than that on beer every week. If I give up drinking, I could have a car in four years."

Ernst nodded, but privately he was thinking about more than the mathematics of the purchase. He saw it in his mind: his family, no longer just workers. They were citizens with mobility. With status. Participants in the modern world, not just observers.

Walking home through the Berlin streets, Ernst began to notice things he had never paid attention to before. The rare automobiles that passed—mostly expensive models driven by business owners or party officials—no longer seemed like objects from a different world. They were previews of his own future, examples of the mobility and freedom that would soon be available to German working families.

When Ernst arrived home, he found Greta preparing their evening meal with the focused attention that had become her habit during the recovery years. Even with steady wages, she continued to approach household management with the careful precision learned during the hardest times.

"How was the rally?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

Ernst sat down heavily in his chair, still processing what he had experienced. "Greta," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the rally. "We are going to buy an automobile."

She laughed. "And a castle in the country, too?"

"I'm serious," Ernst said, pulling out the pamphlet the KdF officials had distributed. "Look at this."

Greta wiped her hands on her apron and examined the colorful brochure Ernst had handed her. The cover featured a gleaming Volkswagen surrounded by a happy German family—father, mother, and two children standing beside their car with expressions of satisfaction and pride.

"The People's Car," Greta read aloud. "For every German family." She looked up at Ernst with skepticism. "This is real?"

"Five marks per week," Ernst explained, his excitement growing as he spoke. "We save five marks every week, and in four years we own our own automobile. Think about it, Greta—we could drive to visit your sister whenever we wanted. We could take Hans on trips to see the country. We could go anywhere."

Greta studied the pamphlet more carefully, reading the details of the savings program. Her expression shifted from skepticism to cautious interest as she absorbed the information.

"Five marks per week," she repeated thoughtfully. "That's... that's less than we spend on treats for Hans. Less than we spend on the cinema."

"Exactly," Ernst said. "We could start saving immediately. By the time Hans is twenty, our family could own a car."

For several minutes, they sat in silence, passing the pamphlet back and forth and examining the photographs of the sleek automobile that could become theirs. Ernst watched as Greta's practical mind worked through the implications—not just the financial calculations, but the social transformation that car ownership would represent.

"Your father would never have imagined such a thing," she said finally.

Ernst nodded. His father had worked in the same factory for thirty years and had never owned anything more expensive than a bicycle. The idea that his son might own an automobile would have seemed as fantastical as owning an airplane.

"That's what makes it so remarkable," Ernst replied. "This isn't just about cars. This is about Germany becoming a country," Ernst replied, "where a man like me can own a car."

Greta continued studying the pamphlet, and Ernst could see that she was beginning to share his excitement. The more she read, the more real the possibility seemed to become.

"When could we start?" she asked.

"The program begins next month," Ernst said. "There's a KdF office where we can purchase our first savings stamp."

That evening, as they sat around their small table with Hans, Ernst explained the Volkswagen program to his son. The teenager's reaction was even more enthusiastic than Ernst had expected.

"We could have our own car?" Hans asked, his eyes widening with excitement. "A real automobile?"

"If we save faithfully for four years," Ernst confirmed.

Hans immediately began calculating the timeline. "I'll be twenty when we get it. I could learn to drive. I could take a girl for a ride in the countryside."

Greta smiled at her son's enthusiasm, but Ernst noticed that she was still studying the savings program brochure. Her practical nature made her examine every detail of any major financial commitment.

"What happens if we can't make a payment one week?" she asked. "What happens if Ernst loses his job?"

Ernst considered the question. The pamphlet didn't address such contingencies in detail, but the program seemed designed to accommodate the realities of working-class life.

"The regime has kept its promises so far," he said. "They've provided jobs, they've provided stability. If they're promising cars for German workers, I believe they'll deliver."

Hans leaned across the table, his face animated with possibility. "Think about all the places we could go. The seaside, the mountains. We could drive anywhere in Germany."

Ernst felt a surge of pride as he watched his son's excitement. Hans had grown up during the worst years of the depression, when the family's horizons had been limited to their immediate neighborhood and the basic struggle for survival. Now Hans was dreaming of adventures that spanned the entire country.

"There's something else," Ernst said, remembering additional details from the rally. "The Party is organizing group activities for Volkswagen savers. Trips to see the factory where our cars will be built. Educational programs about automotive maintenance. Social events with other families who are saving for their cars."

This prospect excited Greta almost as much as the car itself. During the hardest years, their social life had been reduced to immediate family and a few close neighbors. The idea of belonging to a community of aspiring car owners appealed to her desire for broader social connections.

"We'd meet other families like us?" she asked.

"Families exactly like us," Ernst confirmed. "German workers building better lives for their children."

As they prepared for bed that night, Ernst and Greta made their decision. They would begin saving for their Volkswagen. Five marks per week toward a future that would have been unimaginable just five years earlier.

Lying in bed, Ernst reflected on the journey that had brought his family to this moment. Three years ago, they had been scraping for coal along railway tracks, counting pfennigs for potatoes, wondering if their situation would ever improve. Now they were planning to buy an automobile.

The transformation seemed almost miraculous. Not just in their personal circumstances, but in Germany itself. The country that had been broken by depression and defeat was becoming a place where working families could dream of luxuries that previous generations had never imagined.

As Ernst fell asleep, he was already envisioning their first family drive. Hans in the back seat, pointing out landmarks. Greta beside him, watching the landscape roll past. And Ernst himself behind the wheel, guiding his family toward whatever adventures awaited them on the roads of the new Germany.

---

The KdF office on Potsdamer Straße was unlike any government building Ernst Müller had ever entered. The walls were lined with colorful posters: smiling families driving through the Alps, picnics beside gleaming automobiles. It was less a government office, more a showroom for the future.

Behind a polished wooden counter, a smiling clerk in a crisp uniform waited to serve the steady stream of workers who had come to begin their journey toward car ownership. Ernst joined the line, noting that the men around him carried themselves with an air of excitement rather than the resignation typically associated with government transactions.

"First time?" asked the man ahead of him, a middle-aged worker whose calloused hands suggested factory employment.

"Yes," Ernst replied. "You?"

"Third week," the man said proudly. "I'm already thinking about what color I'll choose when the time comes. My wife favors blue, but I prefer black."

Ernst smiled at the man's enthusiasm. Here was someone planning details of a purchase that was still years away, already so invested in the dream that he was making decisions about features and options.

When Ernst's turn came, the clerk greeted him with genuine warmth. "Welcome to the Volkswagen savings program," she said. "Are you ready to begin your family's journey toward automobile ownership?"

Ernst nodded, still somewhat amazed that such a conversation was taking place. "I'd like to purchase my first savings stamp."

The clerk produced a beautifully designed savings book, its cover featuring the same sleek Volkswagen that had captivated Ernst at the rally. She opened it to reveal rows of empty spaces where stamps would be affixed, each representing five Reichsmarks of progress toward ownership.

"This will be your record of achievement," she explained. "Each stamp brings you closer to your goal. When you have 198 stamps, you will have earned the right to your family's Volkswagen."

Ernst calculated quickly: 198 stamps at five marks each meant 990 marks total, exactly as promised. The mathematics were transparent and straightforward, which he found reassuring after years of economic uncertainty.

He handed over his five marks and watched as the clerk carefully affixed the first stamp to his savings book. The stamp itself was a small work of art—colorful, official-looking, bearing the Nazi party symbol alongside an image of the Volkswagen and the words "Strength Through Joy."

"Congratulations," the clerk said, handing him his savings book with a ceremony that made the moment feel significant. "You have taken the first step toward joining the community of German automobile owners."

Ernst held the book carefully as he walked home, treating it with the respect due to an important document. He held the book. One stamp. 197 empty spaces to go. But it wasn't just a stamp. It was a foundation stone.

At home, Greta examined the savings book with the same careful attention she had given to the original pamphlet. She traced the empty spaces with her finger, visualizing the steady accumulation of stamps that would eventually transform their lives.

"Forty-nine stamps would be a year's saving," she calculated aloud. "Ninety-eight stamps would be halfway to ownership."

Hans, meanwhile, was studying the technical specifications printed inside the cover of the savings book. "Listen to this," he said excitedly. "The engine is air-cooled, so it won't freeze in winter. It can reach speeds of up to 100 kilometers per hour. And it gets excellent fuel economy."

Hans's enthusiasm was infectious. Ernst saw it now: the program wasn't just selling cars. It was building a community of believers, one stamp at a time.

Over the following weeks, Ernst settled into the routine of weekly stamp purchases. Every Saturday, he would walk to the KdF office, present his savings book, and add another stamp to his growing collection. The ritual became something he looked forward to, a tangible measure of progress toward a goal that was both personal and patriotic.

Otto Brenner kept the savings book in his jacket pocket, where he could feel its weight.

Five Reichsmarks per week. Every week since September 1938. The book had twenty-seven stamps now, each one representing a step closer to the Volkswagen that would transform his family's life.

The posters were everywhere: a sleek car on an open highway, a family smiling through the windows. "Your Volkswagen—the car of the German worker. Just 5 Marks per week brings the dream within reach."

Otto had done the mathematics. At five Reichsmarks weekly, he'd have the required 750 Reichsmarks in approximately three years. By 1941, he'd own a car. His own car. Not a borrowed vehicle or a distant aspiration, but a tangible asset that represented everything the new Germany had promised: prosperity through hard work, modern convenience accessible to working families, participation in a future that previous generations could never have imagined.

He showed the book to Liesel on the first day of each month, when he received the new stamp. "Twenty-seven," he'd said last week. "Only 123 more."

"What color will we get?" Liesel asked, indulging the fantasy.

"Dark blue," Otto said. He'd thought about this. "Practical. Won't show dirt from the road."

Hans had rolled his eyes—at sixteen, he found his father's enthusiasm embarrassing. But Otto didn't care. The savings book represented more than a car. It represented validation that his machine shop success was translating into middle-class aspirations, that his participation in Germany's industrial revival was earning concrete rewards.

Every week, Otto handed over five Reichsmarks at the Strength Through Joy office. Every week, he received a stamp. The ritual was satisfying in a way that transcended the transaction. It was proof of progress, accumulation, future security.

He'd started carrying the book in his pocket after Jakob Rosenfeld's photograph had taken up permanent residence in his desk drawer. The Volkswagen book felt different—it represented something he was building through legitimate effort rather than inheriting through theft. The car would be his because he'd earned it, saved for it, participated in the system that made it possible.

By March 1939, Otto had thirty-one stamps. He was one-fifth of the way to ownership.

He never noticed that the Volkswagen factory in Fallersleben was producing military vehicles, not civilian cars. He never questioned why none of his neighbors who'd started saving in 1938 had received delivery dates. He never asked what would happen to the savings if the car never materialized.

The book was heavy in his pocket. Solid. Real.

Five Reichsmarks per week. Every week. The dream was exactly 119 stamps away.

The KdF office itself evolved into a social gathering place for Volkswagen savers. Ernst began to recognize other regular customers, and conversations naturally developed around their shared pursuit. They discussed automotive technology, planned imaginary trips, and speculated about delivery schedules with the enthusiasm of people who had found meaning in a common endeavor.

"I've been reading about the factory they're building," reported Wilhelm, Ernst's co-worker who had also joined the savings program. "It's going to be the most modern automobile plant in the world. They're calling the town 'Stadt des KdF-Wagens'—City of the Strength Through Joy Car."

Ernst found these details fascinating. The regime wasn't just promising cars; it was building an entire city dedicated to automotive production. The scale of the commitment suggested serious intent to deliver on the promises being made to German workers.

"When do you think we'll start seeing actual deliveries?" asked Heinrich, another regular at the KdF office.

The clerk behind the counter overheard the question. "Production is beginning soon," she assured them. "The factory is being built with the most advanced technology. When your cars are ready, they will be the finest automobiles in the world."

Ernst noticed that the clerk's answer, while enthusiastic, was somewhat vague about specific timelines. But after years of economic uncertainty, he had learned to focus on long-term goals rather than immediate gratification. The important thing was that the program was legitimate, that the regime was committed to its promises, and that his family was participating in something that would transform their future.

At home, the Volkswagen savings book became a centerpiece of family planning. Greta integrated the weekly five-mark payment into her household budget with the same precision she applied to rent and groceries. The savings discipline required small sacrifices—fewer restaurant meals, more careful shopping, occasional decisions to repair rather than replace household items—but these sacrifices felt meaningful because they served a larger purpose.

Hans, meanwhile, had joined a youth group focused on automotive education. Once a week, he attended meetings where young people learned about car maintenance, driving techniques, and the technology that would power their future vehicles. The programs were designed to prepare the next generation for life in a motorized society, but they also served to deepen emotional investment in the Volkswagen program.

"We're learning about engine maintenance," Hans reported after one of his meetings. "By the time our car arrives, I'll know how to keep it running perfectly."

Ernst felt proud of his son's dedication and expertise. Hans was developing skills that would serve him well in the modern, mechanized Germany that was emerging from the economic recovery. More importantly, Hans was learning to think of himself as someone who would soon own and operate sophisticated technology.

By Christmas 1934, Ernst had accumulated fifteen stamps in his savings book. The progress felt substantial—more money than his family had ever saved toward a single purchase, and visible evidence of their commitment to the future the regime was building. Under the Christmas tree, Greta had placed a small wrapped gift: a set of driving gloves for Ernst to use when their Volkswagen arrived.

"It's never too early to prepare," she said with a smile that mixed practicality with genuine excitement.

Ernst tried on the gloves, imagining the moment when he would use them to grip the steering wheel of his family's own automobile. The gloves transformed the abstract promise of car ownership into something concrete and personal. He was no longer just someone who hoped to own a car someday; he was someone actively preparing for the reality of automobile ownership.

As winter deepened into 1935, Ernst noticed that the Volkswagen savings program was creating social connections that extended beyond the weekly trips to the KdF office. Families who were saving for cars began to identify with each other, forming informal networks based on their shared commitment to the program.

Greta joined a women's group that met monthly to discuss household management strategies that would support their families' savings goals. The women shared recipes for economical meals, techniques for extending the life of clothing and household goods, and advice about budgeting for both current needs and future aspirations.

"We're all working toward the same goal," explained Frau Schmidt, who lived in their building and was also saving for a Volkswagen. "We can help each other succeed."

Ernst found similar camaraderie among his male colleagues who were participating in the program. They discussed automotive topics with the enthusiasm of experts, even though none of them had ever owned a car. They planned group activities for when their vehicles arrived, imagining weekend expeditions and vacation trips that would be possible once they achieved automobile ownership.

The Volkswagen was becoming more than a car. It was a membership card. Saving for it meant you belonged to the new Germany.

By spring 1935, Ernst had accumulated more than thirty stamps in his savings book. When would actual car production begin? When would the first deliveries take place?

He heard rumors at work—automotive production delayed, military vehicles consuming factory capacity. He pushed the doubts away. The regime had delivered jobs. It had delivered pride. It would deliver the car. To believe otherwise felt like betrayal.

---

In April 1936, Ernst received notice that a Volkswagen display model had arrived in Berlin, and savers with fifty or more stamps could schedule appointments to see the actual car. Ernst had fifty-two stamps. He signed up immediately, bringing Hans with him on a Sunday afternoon.

The exhibition hall was packed with families like theirs—fathers in their Sunday suits, mothers who had saved from household budgets, children who had never touched an automobile. The Volkswagen sat on a raised platform under spotlights, gleaming like a jewel, more beautiful than any photograph.

"Can we touch it?" Hans whispered.

The KdF official smiled. "Of course. This is your car. You're buying it with your hard work and discipline."

Ernst watched Hans run his hand along the smooth curve of the fender, saw his son's face glow with wonder. Other families crowded close—a woman pressing her face to the window to see the dashboard, a man carefully examining the chrome trim, children climbing into the back seat and bouncing with excitement.

"Imagine," the official said to the assembled crowd, "in just two more years, these cars will roll off production lines by the thousands. Each family that has saved faithfully will receive their own Volkswagen, and Germany will be a nation on wheels."

Greta squeezed his hand. It was real. Not a picture, not a promise. Cold, solid steel. All those weekly stamps, all that discipline and waiting—it was leading to this gleaming machine that would carry their family into the modern world.

Hans didn't speak on the walk home. Finally, as they neared their apartment, he said quietly, "Papa, I've decided. When we get our car, I want to drive all the way to the Alps. I want to see mountains from our own automobile."

Ernst felt his throat tighten. "We will," he promised. "We will."

---

Klaus Weber stood in what was officially called an "automotive manufacturing facility," but the massive presses being installed were designed for tank hulls, not family cars. He watched workers position equipment that would build military vehicles, not the Volkswagens German families were saving to purchase.

"Any word on when we'll start building actual cars?" asked Friedrich, one of his workers.

Klaus had been dreading this question. "The engineering phase is taking longer than expected," he replied, using management's standard line. "Quality requirements are very demanding."

Friedrich nodded, but Klaus noticed other workers listening, their expressions suggesting similar doubts. They were saving their own five marks per week, trusting that their factory would someday build the cars they were paying for.

That evening at home, Klaus's wife showed him a letter from her brother at the Volkswagen factory construction site. "He says it's magnificent—the most modern automotive plant in the world."

Klaus nodded, saying nothing. His wife believed. Her brother believed. Klaus knew better. But what was the harm in hope? Hope kept the factories running.

---

By December 1936, Ernst Müller had accumulated 104 stamps in his Volkswagen savings book—more than halfway to his goal of automobile ownership. The collection represented over 500 Reichsmarks, more money than his family had ever saved for any single purpose.

Then the letter arrived.

Ernst stood in their apartment, holding the official KdF envelope. His hands shook slightly as he opened it, Greta and Hans watching from the table. The letterhead was crisp, professional, decorated with the Strength Through Joy emblem.

"Dear Volkswagen Saver,

We are pleased to inform you that construction of the world's most advanced automobile manufacturing facility continues according to plan. However, due to heightened quality standards and engineering refinements necessary to ensure German automotive superiority, initial production schedules require adjustment.

Delivery dates previously communicated will be extended to allow for these improvements. Specific delivery schedules will be announced when engineering requirements are finalized. Your patience and continued participation in this historic program are appreciated.

Heil Hitler, Kraft durch Freude Administration"

Ernst read it a third time, searching for a date. There was none. Only words: adjustment, refinements, improvements. The language of postponement.

Hans grabbed the letter, read it quickly. "It's just a delay. They're making the cars better. That's good."

But Greta met Ernst's eyes across the table, and he saw that she understood. After 104 stamps, after two years of five marks every single week, after touching the gleaming model and promising Hans they would drive to the Alps—this letter that said their car was being "adjusted" into a future that had no date.

Ernst sat down heavily. He thought of Wilhelm's cousin at the factory, installing equipment for military vehicles. He thought of Klaus Weber's facility that would never build family cars. He thought of every promise that had led them here, to this moment, holding a letter that politely informed them their dream was postponed indefinitely.

"We keep saving," Ernst said finally, his voice flat. "We keep buying stamps."

"But Papa—" Hans started.

"We keep saving," Ernst repeated. What else could they do? Stop? Lose 104 weeks of hope? They were trapped by the book in his drawer.

Two years and three months of faithful saving had produced no cars. The KdF officials continued to speak of production delays, engineering improvements, and quality requirements that demanded patience from German savers. But Ernst had begun to understand that he was hearing the language of a promise that would never be kept.

"Have you heard anything new about delivery schedules?" Ernst asked Wilhelm during their weekly visit to the KdF office.

Wilhelm shook his head, his expression reflecting the same mixture of hope and doubt that troubled Ernst. "My cousin works at the Volkswagen plant construction site," he said quietly. "He says they're building the most advanced automotive facility in the world. But he also says most of the equipment being installed is designed for military vehicles."

Ernst felt his stomach tighten. He had invested too much time, money, and emotional energy in the Volkswagen program to accept that it might be some kind of elaborate deception. But the evidence was becoming harder to ignore.

At home, the Volkswagen savings book had become a source of family tension rather than shared excitement. Greta continued to make the weekly payments with dutiful precision, but her enthusiasm had been replaced by grim determination. Hans, now eighteen and fully committed to his automotive education, defended the program with the passion of someone whose identity was inseparable from its success.

"The delays are temporary," Hans insisted during one of their family discussions about the program. "German engineering requires perfection. When our cars are finally delivered, they'll be superior to anything else in the world."

Ernst wanted to share his son's confidence, but his experience with German industry was teaching him to distinguish between propaganda and reality. Every factory he knew was operating at maximum capacity producing military equipment. Resources that might have been devoted to civilian automobile production were being consumed by the expansion of Germany's military-industrial complex.

But Ernst also understood that questioning the Volkswagen program too directly had become politically dangerous. Families who expressed public doubts found themselves subject to investigation.

"Perhaps the delays are serving other purposes," Greta suggested during one of their evening conversations. "We've learned to save money systematically, something we never did before. We've met other families with similar goals."

During the Christmas season of 1936, Ernst made a decision. Instead of his usual single stamp purchase, he bought five stamps at once, bringing his total to 109 and demonstrating his continued commitment to the program despite his private doubts.

"Why so many at once?" Greta asked when Ernst showed her the savings book.

"Because I want to reach our goal as quickly as possible," Ernst replied. "Whatever happens with actual car delivery, I want to complete our part of the bargain."

Hans was thrilled by his father's demonstration of commitment. "At this rate, we'll have enough stamps for our car by next Christmas," he said excitedly.

Ernst nodded, but privately he understood that completing their stamp collection might only mark the beginning of a longer wait.

---

As 1936 drew to a close, Ernst Müller stood at the KdF office window, watching families come and go with their savings books. Wilhelm arrived for his weekly stamp, then Heinrich, then Frau Schmidt from their building. All of them still believing. Still saving.

Ernst purchased stamp number 110.

He walked home, his savings book a small, heavy weight in his pocket. 110 stamps. Outside, a military convoy rumbled past, the engines powerful and well-made. The Volkswagen dream was safe in his pocket. The German reality was on the road, heading east.