When we awoke next morning, we found that the train was still rolling. This was a surprise, for usually when we rode a train they stopped at night. Our first stop was at noon, at which time they gave us our meal. The soup tasted delicious to us in this cold weather—for we were going home. Besides the soup we were given some bread. As soon as we had finished eating, the engineer blew the whistle and the train began to roll again. We spent twelve days on the train before reaching the Russian-Polish border, where the doors were locked and the guards took turns watching the train and the prisoners. We did not know the reason; some law, we supposed. Next morning we stopped at Brest-Litovsk and had to leave our train, for the Polish government took over our transport through Poland. At Brest-Litovsk, which is the transit station, the tracks are of a different width; therefore, the Russian trains cannot pass through Polish country. After we had left the train we saw that we were in some kind of camp again. In this camp one of our number called for a meeting, at which he read a resolution drawn up by the Anti-Fa. It was a “thank-you” note to Russia for the opportunity to work for Russia and for having been liberated from the Nazi regime; for being still alive and able to work in the future for the interests of the Communist party. Everyone was asked to sign this resolution. I could not and would not sign, discovering later that only a few had signed this statement. After this meeting the Polish government took charge of the whole affair, reading each prisoner’s name, which was then repeated by the prisoner, along with his surname and date of birth, before he could enter the train on the opposite track. After several hours, when the examination was finished, about twenty-five men still remained outside. We did not know what had happened to them, but later we heard that they were wanted for some reason by the Polish government. Our nerves were on edge, tension and fear mixed with our hope. How long, we wondered, would it be till we were free? Hysterical laughter, jokes, and some talk about food could be heard among the crowd. In the eyes of most could be seen fear for the future. Many of us sat silently in a corner, praying for strength. The strain on men who had been so long in prison was almost unbearable.
The train headed west, destination Frankfurt on the Oder, through the formerly German territory of East Prussia and the Corridor, through towns which had once been German territory, now occupied by Poland. What we saw in this part of the country was shocking: towns and villages abandoned, no signs of life at all, weed-grown streets, houses destroyed by war or exposed to the mercy of the elements and the ravages of decay. Some towns, heavily populated before the war, were now occupied by the Polish, with only a few Germans among them. A few of the remaining Germans came to the train station to beg for bread. We did not have much food for ourselves, but we gave them all we had left. They told us their war experiences and begged us to take them with us. We could not do a thing to help them. In my mind I visualized my parents in the same situation; I could think of nothing more terrible in life than to find my parents begging for bread. My fear grew within me, as I wondered where I should look for my parents and sister. Perhaps they had had the chance to flee East Prussia and save their lives. It was the only hope I had. The ride through this familiar part of my country was as endless as the worries and fear that beset my heart.
On the night of November 20 we arrived at Frankfurt on the Oder. As soon as we left the train we were divided into two groups: those who were going to the East zone could board a train the same night, but those going to West Germany had to spend the night in the waiting room and take the train the next morning. At 4:00 A.M. the train pulled out of Frankfurt in the direction of Helmstedt, the end station of East Germany, arriving about 10:00 A.M. Across from Helmstedt is Friedland—the door to freedom, and the fulfilment of our hopes and dreams. On the other side, some two hundred yards away, we could see the Red Cross wagon, the American officers, the Salvation Army building, and the buses. Marching in groups of five, we passed the Russian guard at the border showed our discharge papers—and then were free.
As soon as we passed the guard we knelt to touch the ground. The American officers and Red Cross workers gave us a hospitable welcome. Buses carried us to the transit camp in Friedland, where we had our first decent bath and were given new underwear, food, and a bed. In the meantime we were registered and subjected to physical examination.
I could not rest until I knew something about my relatives. I was looking for the Red Cross office, finding it in the main building, a well-equipped office with photos and addresses of people who were expecting somebody back from prison camp or from East Germany. I went to the window for refugees from East Prussia and gave my name, asking for my parents and sister. The lady on duty went through book after book to find the names I had given her. I was shaking, the sweat running down my face, my heartbeat so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. I could not believe what the lady was telling me, having to ask her again and again. But it had the ring of truth, and I stood helplessly while her words bored into my very soul. My father had passed away in November, 1944; my mother had been shot down by Russian soldiers in 1945; my sister and both of her children had been displaced to Siberia and died of starvation in 1946; a niece had been repatriated in April, 1949. Everything broke down inside me; all my hope, the strength to which I had clung in the past seven years, left me with this terrible news. I was a stranger in West Germany, with no friends, no relatives, and no home.
I tried to pull myself together, wondering what to do first. In Friedland I received forty marks, enough to rent a room. I found a furnished room, paying 12.50 marks a week in advance, which left me sufficient money for food.
In the weeks to come I was unable to work and received unemployment compensation of 17.50 marks a week, but the room rent took most of the money. For three months I was under a doctor’s care, taking calcium shots three times a week, and without the money to eat properly. I decided to go on my own and look for a position, but I found little sympathy for a homeless refugee. As a repatriated former soldier I had to work for less money than others. I was glad to earn an honest living. As soon as I had become adjusted to normal living, I tried to find my niece; the Red Cross helped me to locate her. Though she was living far from me, I nevertheless took several days off from my work to see her, for I wanted to know the terrible truth about my mother’s death. When I went to her apartment, her landlady told me that she was working and would not be back until afternoon. It was still early in the day, but I went to the train station and waited until she came.
As train after train arrived without her I became more nervous by the minute, my heart beating heavily and my palms damp with perspiration. Finally I saw her leave the train, and I moved back a few steps to let her pass the ticket window. When she was beside me, I called her name. She looked at me and fell crying into my arms. I tried to calm her, but I was more nervous than she. With my last pennies we went into the nearest coffee house where we would be undisturbed.
She told me about the death of my father and the terrible death of my mother. She went on and on, telling me all her experiences during the time when the Russian soldiers had opened fire on my hometown. Her impressions seemed badly garbled, for she had so much to tell and could not keep the story straight. I could see that her mind was too full of all those terrible incidents to tell the story in chronological order. I had to piece it together from what she could tell me.