“And now I would like to return home, to see my father.”
The Major tapped his fingers together. “Your father is still in Canada?” Maurice nodded. “What about your mother? Don’t you want to return to her, especially now that the war is over?”
“Things were peaceful in our village when I left. I know she’s well. I received a letter from her recently.” That was a lie. The Soviet Union, chaotic at the best of times, had had no reliable mail service since the war began.
“I see,” the Major nodded. He straightened his back and said “I’m sorry, Private, but the British Commission simply cannot be transporting Soviet soldiers to wherever they wish to go. You can understand that it is simply against regulations.” He reached for some more papers that the lieutenant held out. “If you do wish to return to Canada, you must first return to Russia with your unit, and then apply to emigrate from there. If you wish to fill out this form, we can begin processing your immigration request from here, to expedite it on our side, later.”
Maurice was stunned. “But I am a Canadian citizen, not Russian. I am not a Soviet. I only want to return home.”
“I understand, Private Bury,” the Major said very patiently. “But I cannot help an allied soldier to desert his unit. If you follow the proper channels, in good time your request will, I am certain, be honoured. Perhaps if you would care to return in the afternoon, when Lieutenant Charles has some free time, the two of you can begin the request for immigration.” He looked at another paper on his desk.
Maurice shook his head. Returning to Ukraine was impossible. But it would be useless to explain that to these officers. He pretended to agree to return yet again, and left the office.
He could not get out of the building fast enough. He felt as if a huge claw was squeezing his chest. He kept looking over his shoulder, dreading the sight of another Red Army uniform. Only once he got to the ruined street, among the wounded and traumatized people who staggered by, dodging army trucks and jeeps and tripping over debris, did he feel like he could breathe.
If Major Retent had known his whole story, would he have granted Maurice’s request? Or would he have turned him over to the Red Army to be shot immediately?
“Stupid officers!” he shouted, but no one looked at him. There were too many broken people in that broken city for anyone to worry about one more man talking to himself.
Half-blind with increasing anger, Maurice stumbled through the rubble. I knew it would not be easy to get to Canada, but I didn’t think the British would be part of the problem.
He found he had joined a general flow of people down the once-broad avenue, and he let the crowd carry him generally southward. Good: south is the American zone of occupation.
By afternoon, he reached a railway yard. He was surprised to see how undamaged it seemed. It was idle. Freight wagons sat on the tracks, open and empty. The crowd moved faster, and as he followed, Maurice realized they were converging on a series of open boxcars. With the rest of the crowd, Maurice started running.
The boxcars were filled with clothes, unused and unembellished wehrmacht uniforms once destined for the front lines, as well as boxes and crates of plain civilian pants, shirts and jackets, even socks and underwear. The Germans had always been particular about having good uniforms. The crowd rifled through torn-open boxes, taking what they could, stuffing clothing into bags or boxes or just throwing them over their shoulders. It was chaos.
Maurice knew what he had to do. Dropping his heavy Russian chenille to the ground—where it was immediately grabbed by another man—he replaced it with a long, grey German coat. He took a new shirt, new socks, new underwear and new pants, moving down the length of the boxcar, pushing through the crowd to grab what he needed. He went to a corner and, not caring who saw him, changed quickly. He was no longer a Soviet soldier, but just another refugee crowding the roads of Germany.
In the May sunshine, Maurice Bury, former Red Army soldier, former Ukrainian resistance fighter, former Soviet Red Army officer, and hoping to be a Canadian citizen again, followed the flow of the crowds south. He set his goal as Munich, where the American army occupied Bavaria.
Ingolstadt
June 1945
May turned into June as Maurice walked southwest toward Munich. The sun got hot, but Maurice held onto the German overcoat – the nights were cold and besides, it might just represent a turn in his luck.
The countryside continued its checkerboard pattern of picture-perfect farmland and rural villages next to devastated countryside, burned without a living thing left standing, featureless except for charred hulks of cars, trucks and tanks, and twisted piles of metal that were once airplanes.
Maurice felt more endangered than ever. The roads were jammed with people, desperate, hungry, lost and morose most of the time. Savage fights broke out among the refugees several times a day. Trucks and jeeps roared up and down the shattered highways, forcing the walking refugees to dodge out of the way. The vehicles represented all the victorious armies – British, American, French, even occasionally Canadians, but Maurice stayed out of their way as much as he could. More than once, he saw a Mercedes staff car or general’s limousine with Wehrmacht markings still, filled with joy-riding, grinning GIs or Tommies.
Whenever a Red Army vehicle rumbled past, he hid in bushes or behind fences.
At night, Maurice sometimes joined a small camp of fellow refugees, as long as they didn’t ask too many questions. On those nights, he could count on sharing a little food. Other than his time in the POW camp, he had never felt so hungry. In later years, he wouldn’t be able to remember much of this time and couldn’t recall at all how he found enough food to survive. But somehow, he did.
Gradually, the land changed from the rolling plains of northern Germany and Prussia to hillier, forested lands, then rose higher. He slowed until the roads suddenly began trending downhill. He didn’t know it, but Maurice had entered the Danube valley.
Along the banks of the Danube was the town of Ingolstadt. Maurice found himself in the middle of a crowd of refugees that were being herded by the American Army toward a large fenced area outside the town.
Ingolstadt, eighty kilometres north of Munich, was one of the first Displaced Persons camps set up by the occupying Allies across Europe. The refugees flowed into the camp, finding places within the fences to set up a camp or to share a tent or other makeshift shelters. American soldiers directed men, refugees or escapees, in erecting small wooden buildings.
Although he was once again in a mass camp, Maurice was not afraid this time. He knew the Americans would feed them and eventually free them all. And even if they wanted to hold all the Germans, he was a Canadian citizen.
Before they could get food, the refugees had to endure a dusting by the American medical corps. “Preventing typhus,” they said. “Take it or you don’t get in and don’t get fed.” The refugees protested and made faces as the Americans spread the disinfectant dust on their faces, necks and hands.
Then they had to declare themselves before a small tribunal of a junior officer and non-commissioned clerks.
“Nationality?” asked the lieutenant, a thin young blond man with a thick accent that Maurice would later learn was southern. He would also learn that the real purpose of declaring nationality was to find Nazis, to prosecute them for the war.
“Canadian,” said Maurice, assuming that would help him get back to Canada. But the lieutenant looked at him, puzzled.
“Canadian?” he repeated. “Did you say, ‘Canadian’?”
“Yes, sir. Maurice Bury, Canadian citizen.” He pointed at the “Canada” tag sewn onto his cap.