The Wernher von Braun Theory of Birth Control

Wernher von Braun

My father often told the story of interviewing Wernher von Braun and telling the great rocket scientist about his “Wernher von Braun Theory of Birth Control.” Since my father claimed to have sired at least 18 children, it would seem that he did subscribe to this theory, or more accurately, excuse.

It’s a bit of a shaggy dog story, but here it is in his own words from the unpublished “Tales of the Living Legend”:

I went out to the NASA-Redstone Arsenal to interview Wernher von Braun, the great ex-Nazi Rocket expert. Von Braun, a huge barrel of a man with a lionesque head, was one of the singularly most important men in the U.S. Space program. By size alone, he tended to intimidate all who met him—myself included.

When I entered his office the first person I met was his wife—who also doubled as his secretary. She buzzed him and then introduced me to this relative giant of a man. Although this was not the first interview I had ever done, I decided to break the ice with this affable ex-member of the Third Reich and protege of Adolph Hitler. So, I asked him if he had ever heard of the Wernher von Braun theory of birth control. He leaned forward from his perch on the corner of his desk (sitting on it with one leg draped over the corner) a way he often chose to talk to people, tending to subconsciously dominate the conversation.

“No,” said he, “tell me about it.”

He still had the same German accent—no doubt the one with which he directed his slave workers at Peenemünde who were building all those V2 rockets to rain down on London. 

“Well,” said I who—as I began to think more about it, thought it might be not such a good idea after all—“you remember, in 1945, when the Allies were closing in on you from both sides—the Russians from Berlin, the British from the Huertgen Forest just to the West— you wrapped your left arm with all the top-secret rocket documents and plans and had your doctor make a broken shoulder cast around them, so you could escape with the documents unobtrusively?”

He nodded and leaned forward seriously, intense with interest (The details seemed to indicate I was well-versed). He nodded to keep me going further—but a lump was growing in my throat as I slowed at the thought of reminding this man of his Nazi past. This guy was big enough to make mincemeat of me—and that thick German accent!

“Well, you chose to head west, hopeful of being taken by the more civilized British than the Russians who had said they would kill you on the spot. And sure enough the British caught up with you in the forest and you were taken back to their headquarters for interrogation.” (I could see by his attention that he was reliving the events—I gulped and slowed down, but he urged me on, not quite seeing the connection between this and either birth control or NASA).

“The British, wanting the top secret rocketry information, were putting on the pressure, but you were reluctant, hoping to cut a deal with the Americans to exchange the information for immunity, a visa for your wife and family and an opportunity to carry on your rocketry work with American colleagues. The British were relentless: even to the point of hinting that they might take you back to England, where you would surely be tried for war crimes . . . and what 12 Brits wouldn’t fail to convict you!”

He was nodding his assent, urging me on, but I was already shriveling in fear.     

“Well, I was impressed by your reply . . .” 

I paused; silence; he paused.

“Yes?”My mind was racing—should I attempt to recreate that inimitable accent and underscore the impact? or should I quit while I was ahead, possibly preserve my job[1], and make the appropriate point? I pushed on.

“You replied: ‘I vas only responsible for ze launching of ze rockets! Vere zey came down, und vit vhat effect—dot vas not in my jurisdiction!’ And that, sir, is my theory of birth control!”

There was a long, stony pause as it all sank in as von Braun, expressionless, towered over me. (Ice-breaker, indeed, I said to myself as I awaited the volcanic explosion. And explode he did.) The room exploded into raucous laughter. He could hardly contain himself; he certainly could not stay on his desk-corner perch. His whole body convulsed with laughter. Obviously, I had taken a considerable risk, but it seemed to have paid off. But there was more! Having digested it all, he turned to his wife, who, having heard the noise, came into the office.

Von Braun absolutely insisted that I tell my story all over again, so his wife could enjoy a good laugh as well! The ice had been well and truly broken, I got a great interview, gained a new “buddy,” and prayed that [security officer] Puffer wouldn’t get wind of what I’d said to the great von Braun.[2]

---

[1] It should be noted that von Braun had a direct line to Washington where, with one call, he could terminate me with NASA!

[2] But, who knows, as a WWII marine vet, Puffer might have enjoyed my reminding von Braun of his Nazi past and of his possible war crime trial, which he plea-bargained away! It might have wiped clean the Puffer slate!

The Obituary

http://articles.philly.com/1995-01-20/news/25715426_1_temple-university-assistant-professor-san-fermin

The Death of the Living Legend

My stepmother, Janet, thought it a little odd My father didn't answer the phone when she landed at the airport on Sunday morning, the 15th of January. She was a pilot, and still is, for a large commercial airline, and she always made it a point to call before getting the train home to Cambridge.

The house was quiet when she got there. She went upstairs and the first thing she noticed when reaching the top of the staircase was the phone off the hall table and sitting on the floor in front of the  open bedroom door. He must be napping, she thought to herself as walked down the hall to the bedroom doorway where she found my father naked on the bed, sheets and blankets on the floor.

She walked in, reached down and touched him. His skin was cold. She checked for a pulse. There was none. Her heart sank, but she didn't panic. She was, after all, a former Naval pilot and currently flew 747s across the Atlantic and Pacific. She reached down, picked up the phone and dialed 999. An ambulance was dispatched.

She looked around at the scene. The phone on the floor, she reasoned to herself, my father had likely put there to make sure he didn't miss hearing the phone when she called, though the phone cord stretched to it's full length only brought it four feet closer. The sheets and blanket on the floor were puzzling, but as for my father being naked, well, he often slept naked although it was hard to explain doing so on a cold January night in England.

Of course, an autopsy was performed and the results came back three days later. Cause of death: I. (a) Acute heart failure; (b) Recent myocardial infarction; (c) Diffuse and occlusive coronary atherosclerosis and II. Pulmonary oedema. (See death certificate below.)

Sketch of the Living Legend

A sketch of the Living Legend by unknown artist

The Wake

It was a cold day in January 1995. There was a light dusting of snow on Jesus Green as we trudged through from our rooming house on Chesterton Road to rendezvous at the St. Radegund pub, where we all planned to meet before the funeral and afterward for the wake. There was a kind of eerie winter quiet. No words were spoken between us, just the sound of snow crunching beneath our feet.

My brother and I were conspicuous in the Cambridge crowd with our leather bomber jackets and brown, wide-brimmed fedoras. Although not much was said, I’m sure they noted we looked like the Yanks we were, but only our father’s closet friends knew we had actually born there.

All my father’s closest friends were there for his funeral: Mac Rutherford, Terry Kavanagh (who owned the Radegund) and Sammy Singh among others. We headed out to the mortuary where he was to be cremated. After a few words were said over his closed casket, our stepmother approached us and asked if we wanted see my father one last time. We both silently shook our heads. She turned back to the mortician with a nod and shortly after which a panel in the wall opened and the casket moved quietly into the crematorium’s oven. For a moment I was glad my sisters weren’t there. They might have insisted on seeing the body to verify that he was actually dead. The incineration of his body would of course preclude the need to drive a wooden stake through his heart,

As my brother and I shuffled out of the little chapel, my father’s tall Sikh friend, Sammy Singh, put his arms around our shoulders. He asked us if we wanted to watch the smoke coming from the chimney. With a glance backward and a quick, simultaneous, “No,” my brother and I headed to the car and back to the St. Radegund where the wake was to be held.

My father, Peter Vorzimmer, was just 57 when he died. Now that I’m that age myself, it seems kind of a young age to die, but then I think that if I hadn’t taken care of myself to this point—my father never did until it was apparently too late—I might be close to death myself. I calculated that I will be the same age as he was this year, on June 13. I hope I haven’t cursed myself in some way by figuring out that date. Like my father referring to himself as “The Living Legend”—yes, the appellation and hence the name of the blog comes from him, not me.

The Living Legend in the Pamplona Bullring

At the time, when I thought about the actual date of his death, I was reminded of a conversation I had had with him exactly fourteen years before. My grandmother—my mother’s mother—had just died on January 15, 1981. My father was trying to console me as best he could, which usually meant trying to divert my mind by some intellectual exercise or by pontificating on the subject, in this case death. He reflected for a moment on the date and pointed out that every year we pass a whole day, the day and month on which we will die sometime in some unknown year. It’s an unknown anniversary. Ironically that very day was his, on which he would die exactly 14 years later. I wonder now if had any premonition about that particular day and month.

Back at the St. Radegund, Terry served up pints of ale though it was not yet noon and on a weekday no less, it was a wake in the best Irish tradition—my father’s mother was Irish, his father was Jewish. It fell on the shoulders of my father’s friend Mac Rutherford to make the first toast to his memory. He began by addressing my father, first looking upward, hesitating, looking down at the floor, saying a few more words, looking up again and finally saying, “I’m not sure which direction he went.”

Those words seem to sum up the balance of my father’s legacy. If you’re one of the people who knew him, you too, might have wondered which direction he went. If you listed all my father’s accomplishments both noble and notorious, famous and infamous, you would be hard put yourself to make the call. Let’s hope, that if there is a Heaven and a Hell, that he at least got a chance to make his case in Purgatory. I pity the Archangel who had to make that determination on which way to send him.

There was a tradition started that day of the wake, of telling stories about my father. It continued with a wake held in the States later that year, again in Pamplona, Spain that summer and has continued at every family gathering over the last 21 years. It is the tradition of telling tales of the Living Legend I hope to keep alive with this blog. I remember my father once warning a friend, “Be good to your kids, they will be the steward’s of your legacy.” He should have heeded that advice himself.

A Living Legend Artifact

Photo: The Living Legend in Morocco

The Living Legend in Morocco in the early 1970s

Peter James Vorzimmer (May 7, 1937–Jan 15, 1995)

Although I have an endless source of material to keep this blog going for the rest of my life, I welcome any contributions. If you have a story about the Living Legend, please feel free to send it to me and I will post them.

Today, I filed a request under the FoIA for my father's NASA personnel file. Should be interesting reading and I'll post the highlights here.

Monday, I'm sending away for a copy of his birth certificate.