Markwart left Breslau, his place of birth. I left in the November of 1945. He saw no prospects for his future medical career, in staying in a city reigned over by Slavs. Shortly before he departed, he wrote down his thoughts about his birthplace, in a poem.
Markwart was never ever to see his old home-city again. We met some years later in West Germany and I met not only a family man with children, but also a Professor of Medicine.
I did not have to be alone for long, for there were many Breslauers who would have taken me in, a young man on his own, and useful as a protector. So I lived for a long time in Klosterstrasse, in the house of an old lady. In order to prevent the plundering raids of the Poles at night, I barricaded the doors with stout wooden planks. They tried many times, but they were unlucky. When this lady, married to a Belgian, finally received permission to join her husband, she made me heir to her house, which didn’t please the Poles very much. I had it in writing that I now owned her house. They found the loop-hole they needed and told me that this ‘Will and Testament’ was not legally signed and sealed by a solicitor, so it was not legal. It was therefore not mine. I could however let it, or rent it to students, which I did.
One could not be too fussy at that time. Half of the house at the back had been shot away by artillery fire, and that included the toilet on the second floor. Those using it had a lovely view of the mountains of debris and rubble. Such conditions were ideal for insects, not one or two, but a whole plague of them, which robbed us of our sleep.
A family called Laska lived not far from my house, at number twelve in Lutzowstrasse. Their house had been spared any drastic bomb-damage. The daughter of the family with her infant, the daughter-in-law, and two aunts lived there, complete with their possessions. The daughter’s husband returned from POW camp and together with him, we combined our talents for survival, for ourselves and the family. At that time it was not known if Mr Laska and the two sons were still living. So in close association with the family, I became a provisional son and brother, not only because I found and chopped firewood for them, but also because of my business talents on the ‘black’ market. With a chosen article from their possessions, I could and did barter for something necessary or useful.
The centre of this ‘black’ market was the Scheitniger Star, between the Kaiser and Fürsten bridges. The area, having been utilised as a provisional airstrip for the airport, was large, with lots of open space and surrounded on all side with ruined houses. It could perhaps be compared to an oriental marketplace for it buzzed with Polish handlers, and farmers’ wives in their white headscarves, offering their wares from stands or from the back of pony-drawn Panje carts.
Everything precious to the German national that had made up their former standard of living was to be had there. But to buy it, one either had to be a millionaire, or be prepared to give one’s last shirt for it. Butter, eggs, chocolate, bacon, and coffee-beans were offered, but one could not pay the required prices. One could recognise the poor Germans amongst the throng, for amongst the handlers and the Polish civilians, they stood out as thin and anxious. In expecting their exile at any time, many German women sold or exchanged everything from their household, even the suits from their fallen husbands or missing sons. Most accepted the most miserable of prices, not being brave enough to barter with those who had no scruples.
I was more resolute in my dealings with the handlers, as a male, and a foreigner as well. I let them know that business was business and that their stated price was not for me. I bartered in Polish, for as long as it took, until the price was what I had intended, i.e. reasonable for the wares offered. I soon became a ‘king’ of this market. When I appeared, I usually offered articles from the Laska family from before the war. Such items had become costly, but were of good quality and could no longer be obtained. I had leather shoes, wool coats, suits, bedding materials, inlets, women’s brassieres. All were sought after goods and brought the highest of prices.
When business for the day closed, I allowed myself a visit to the Piwo and Wino stand, where I downed a vodka and ate a sausage in a roll. I was usually not there long before being joined by one of the many prostitutes. It was the custom when meeting members of the opposite sex on the street, to greet them with a kiss of their hand. This included them, even when they had black fingernails!
After successful sales, we were able to add pancakes and potato fritters to our daily nourishment, but both had to be fried without fat. Sometimes we even had smoked meats. At Christmas 1945 for instance, we managed to have typical Silesian dumplings, with roast pork and pickled cabbage.
Someone had the idea of visiting the now wild and overgrown nursery gardens in Gandau, to harvest some apples. It was a long way on foot. So one day we decided to take a short cut through the churchyard, which lay between aerodrome and Pilsnitzerstrasse to. The first time that we took this route, we could only stand and stare in disbelief and utter disgust at the sacrilege that we found. Graves had been plundered. Mausoleums had been broken into. Slabs of stone and marble had been smashed, in order to plunder from the dead. Wedding rings, other jewellery and gold teeth had been stolen from the open graves, in greed that stemmed from non-capitalists? We could only stand on this ‘acre of God’s land’ in utter disgust at the sacrilege, presumably from Russian soldiers.
I did not hurry to register myself as a DP, for I was not so keen about being repatriated back to Holland. My BVB papers satisfied me for the time being. So that with luck, nerve, and more than enough deceit, I hoped that I could survive that rather unstable time. There had been more than enough dangerous situations, any of which could have been my undoing.
One of those was a surprise house-search from the Poles, particularly dangerous for us when I was found at the Laska’s house. Once, the Polish security officers, including an arrogant chap, in an ultra-chic uniform and typical square cap, searched the whole flat in a show of self-importance. Luckily for me, they did not think to test for hollow walls, for I was hidden one time in a very well concealed wall cupboard, used for bed linen. The Laska family could think themselves lucky that they were not sacrificed by Polish businessmen. Such men were those behind the militia, who were sent by them on plundering missions.