I had of course to tell Elzbieta of my decision. I did this as carefully as I could one day as we bathed in the Ole. She had expected and dreaded it happening. She begged me to stay or at least delay my departure. My brief explanation was not enough to convince her of the danger I was in. So I decided that I had to tell her the whole truth. Perhaps then she would under -stand. She did not. I showed her the buckle on my leather belt, a part of my uniform. But she had already guessed that I was not just the foreign worker that I made out to be. She made it difficult, she made me feel guilty. I believed that her clinging affection was just a part of a temporary affair between two young people. She could not accept the position that I was in. Not even when I showed her that the eagle insignia on my jacket was not on the left-hand breast but worn on the left arm, as worn by the SS. It made no impression on her. She wanted me to stay. Having done this, I had to beg of her, as a Polish citizen, for my protection. In tears, she swore she would give me protection. Her love and her bravery really touched me, but I thought it could not be real. The situation was decided for me, for us, when she and her family were moved once more. They were forced to return to Lemberg and that ended our liaison.
My worst fears after being discharged as a prisoner became reality on the morning of a warm and sunny day when my freedom ended. I was in Feldstrasse when three uniformed and armed members of the militia stopped me and asked me for my identity papers. One of them held a passport photo in his hands and looked at my face intently and then I was forced to go with them to their commander. The passers-by stopped and looked at us as we made our way through Klosterstrasse. One of the Poles had a rifle over his shoulder and another of them a cocked Russian machine-pistol. Other people just stole a cursory anxious glance at us. Upon being recognised by the Germans, the word soon went around that ‘the Dutchman’ has been arrested.
We stopped at number 120 in Klosterstrasse, at a large house ‘Bethanian House’, which was the Polish command post. I was thrown into a dark cellar room, without a word of explanation or questions. The concrete floor was flooded with water, several inches deep. I tripped into it, soaking my shoes and socks. Perhaps it was the first softening-up process for the arrested. It must have been about an hour later that I was collected and taken to the second floor. There I stood in my wet socks and protested, in front of a Pole, who had a cap of Russian origin sitting sloppily on the back of his head. He was sitting behind a large kitchen table, with files on top of it, a newspaper and what else? A bottle of vodka and water glass. His jargon was for me ‘double-Dutch’ and I didn’t understand a single word that he uttered. I only saw that he glanced continually at the passport photo and then at me. It was a man of about my age, but who wore glasses, which I didn’t need to wear. I was then suddenly ordered into the next room. It was an ante-room, with people coming and going, all in uniform, all in a hurry, and who took not the slightest bit of notice of me.
I was uptight with worry for days. On that day I had a double identity on me, which could have been my undoing. I had my Russian discharge paper on me, as well as my foreign worker’s paper, which had not been discovered. The state security police from the UB had not searched me up to that point. It had to disappear! I decided that I must eat it. Before I could however, a German cleaning lady crossed my path, and I asked her if she would take this corpus delicti to the Laskas for me. It was a risk, but the dear lady did what I asked of her and delivered it to the Laskas some little time later.
With that done, I now had to see to it that I left the house. After waiting a while I seized my chance, by walking out casually behind a militiaman, leaving the room as close on his heels as possible. No one noticed. He went downstairs, so did I. He left the house and so did I, with the guard on the door standing to attention, thinking just what I wanted him to think and that was that we were together. For the next week I was in another ‘cell’ at the cloisters, and was given the best of service from the Father Prior. The Poles seldom enquired after refugees at the cloisters, and when a prisoner escaped, then they arrested someone else. It was as simple as that.
That short spell of arbitrary justice, even only for a few hours, together with the very uncertain future in Breslau that I saw, strengthened my will to leave. My existence there became more dangerous and risky by the day. Far too many people knew that I had been a soldier. One false slip from someone could have given me away, and produced a catastrophe, which neither I nor they wanted. I had, after all, fought against a system which then reigned. I was delivered, but without any protection. In between times not even Jews were exempt from Polish arbitrary justice, and were fair game for the Polish authorities. “Under the Nazi régime in Poland during the war, anti-semitic comments about the liquidation of the Jews grew, with thoughtless approval, at a fast rate. It was not the opinion of individuals, but of the majority of the Polish people”. (Der Vertriebenen, 1957)
It was about 11 o’clock on 12 June, on the corners of Lützow and Klosterstrasse, that it happened. Everything in my life, at that point, which was dull and cloudy, blew away. I actually thanked my lucky stars, on that warm and sunny day, that ‘lady luck’ had guided my footsteps to Breslau. In talking to a Polish ‘handler’, I noticed dark brown locks of hair bobbing on the shoulders of their owner. She was a young attractive girl, dressed in a light blue anorak. In that moment I was spellbound. I was fascinated in seconds, by this slim and lovely being who appeared to be from another world. So much so, that I simply had to get to know her. My bartering came to a very abrupt end and I followed her.
To my immediate dismay, my introductory routine with girls was to prove useless this time. Well, perhaps I should not have been surprised. Convinced that she was German, I should also have known that she could not possibly think that this foreign-speaking nobody was very pro-German. I could not hide my accent, nor the colourful cockade on my lapel. Nor could she know my problems in that precarious time of terror and harassment against the Germans. She had every right to be suspicious and more than a little irritated at my advances. When I had a chance, then I would have to prove to her that my intentions were pure. So why not with my identity? I bared my soul, my past, and my army career in fighting on the side of the Germans, to this lovely maiden. Her mistrust and irritation disappeared. She appeared regal to me, untouchable. I realised that relaxed flirting with her was out of place. I did not even think of it, for this was so different, so very different. I had never been struck so heavily by ‘cupid’s dart’, as now. I was so happy that I could have stormed the heavens. Friedrich Schiller’s words came to me, spoke to me, from his verse, “the first love, a golden time, when eyes look into open heavens”.
All my experiences in the past, both good and bad, were now null and void, since the starry hours that began since my meeting with Brigitte. That was the name of this twenty-year old. I was underway to fulfilling the intimations of the Laska family, that I should take a ‘momento’ home with me. It was a ‘momento’ from Breslau, from the war, from Germany. It was a ‘bounty-packet’ in the shape and form of a bride.
We met every day thereafter, when Brigitte’s work allowed. For like all other Germans, she had to work for the Poles. Her employees were just like Elzbieta’s parents. Mr and Mrs Markowitz, Congress Poles, were a very friendly pair, owners of a colonial-ware shop and waiting to go to America. They wanted to take Brigitte with them as an adopted daughter.
I always picked her up from the shop in Feldstrasse, and with every day I knew that I had found my partner for life, beyond any doubt. We sauntered for hours on end, from one corner of her birthplace to another, and in all the surrounding areas.