“That’s ‘tardiness,’” Andrei said under his breath as they put distance between themselves and the Russian—quickly, but not too quickly.
It took more than a half hour to reach the British headquarters in a sprawling, elegant 18th century mansion made of plaster-covered stones painted light green.
Andrei knew these men, too, and breezed past the guards and clerks until he stood in the office of Captain Philip C.L. Hildash, as indicated by an elegantly engraved sign on his ornate desk, made of cherry wood inlaid with other woods and carved in the eighteenth century style. “I’m acting in a colonel’s capacity,” he said by way of explaining a question no one had asked. “I understand you come highly recommended, Mr. Retsick.”
“It’s Hretsyk,” Andrei said, in English. “And you, I understand can authorize international travel.”
“Indeed I can.” He stood. Captain, Acting Colonel, Hildash was a tall, thin and very young officer with straw-coloured hair and large teeth. His bright blue eyes protruded slightly. “Where do you want to go, Mr. Restock?” He sat on the edge of his inlaid desk, one foot swinging.
“Hretsyk. And it’s not I who needs to go to Canada. It’s my good friend here, Maurice Bury.”
Captain Hildash’s eyebrows rose. “Canada? That’s very far. Why should this man go to Canada?”
“Because he is a Canadian. Born in Canada. Repatriating him means returning him to Montreal.”
Captain Hildash turned to Maurice. “I assume you can provide some kind of evidence to support this?”
Maurice pulled out his birth certificate for the second time that day, along with his red travel authorization signed by the commandant of Camp Landeck. Last, he took out the affidavit signed by his Aunt Evdokia in Montreal, where she promised to sponsor him and provide him with work, and the accompanying authorization from the Canadian Secretary of State, Louis St-Laurent.
Captain Hildash took the forms, spread them out on his desk and sat behind it. He stared hard at them and thought. He looked up at Maurice, then at Andrei and back at Maurice again, his bright blue eyes shining. He looked at the forms again and nodded. “Very well. You have clearance to travel within Austria. I can authorize you to exit the country, to travel all the way to Canada. But you will have to pay for your transit yourself.”
“That is not a problem,” Maurice said.
And a few minutes later, Maurice walked out of the British Occupational Headquarters in Vienna with two new documents: a red card, similar to the travel permit he got in Landek, that described him as an “interpreter student” born in Canada, filled out in Captain Hildash’s peculiar square handwriting. For some reason that Maurice would never understand, Captain Hildash wrote down his birthdate incorrectly by one month, as “4 March 1919.”
But most important, it authorized him to travel from Austria to Canada, any time between 7 February and 7 May, 1947. The clerk with corporal’s stripes stamped “Allied Military Control, Vienna.”
He also got a smaller green card, a Military Exit Permit that not only allowed him to leave Austria, but required him to cross the frontier 7 May, 1947.
Two and a half weeks later, the green Exit permit received another stamp, at the Vienna Schwechat airport: Allied Military Control, Date Dep.: 25 Feb 1947.
Maurice had succeeded in walking out of war.
Epilogue
Maurice settled in Montreal with his father, Michael, but was unable to bring his mother and sister out of the USSR until 1970.
In Montreal, Maurice met a Ukrainian immigrant, the young Sophia Niunka from L’viv. They married in May, 1949. They bought a house in Verdun, a suburb of Montreal, as well as investment properties they rented out across the city.
Maurice soon found work as an electrical technician for Northern Electric, the company that eventually became Nortel. Fortunately, he retired long before the company’s management drove it into financial excesses that led to its bankruptcy in the 21st century.
Maurice and Sophia had one child, a lovely daughter they named Roxanne. Smart and beautiful, after she graduated with her Honours Bachelor of Arts degree from Carleton University, she had the poor judgment to marry a hopeful writer from Thunder Bay.
Author’s note
I feel very fortunate to have met and known Maurice Bury.
Walking Out of War is the third and concluding volume in the story of Maurice Bury’s wartime experiences—but not of his life.
As mentioned in the last chapter, after the war, Maurice returned to his birthplace, Montreal. There he reunited with his father, Michael. And he went on to lead an extraordinary life in that extraordinary city. He built a career as an electrical technician, and married a Ukrainian immigrant, Sophia Niunka. They had a daughter, Roxanne, and built up some impressive real estate holdings.
Maurice also became a leader in the Ukrainian community in Montreal, holding the position of President of the Prosvita, the Taras Shevchenko Ukrainian Canadian Reading Society in Montreal, for over thirty years.
During his lifetime, Maurice was able to bring his mother out of the U.S.S.R. to live with him for a few years. Tekla Kuritsa returned to Ukraine, however, before the end of the 1970s and passed away in 1985.
In his life, Maurice was never one to bend your ears with stories about his experience in the war. But he would share some of them, if asked. As a father, he responded to complaints about school cafeteria food with tales about the truly horrible food he had to endure as a soldier and especially as a prisoner of war.
What Maurice did was to inspire those around him. He sparked value for education, interest in history and dedication to community—as well as a healthy dose of skepticism for politicians and anyone who would have us believe they have all the answers.
Maurice passed away at the end of 2004, at the age of 85. He is survived by his wife, Sophia, daughter Roxanne, and grandsons Evan and Nicolas. And his great-grandson is also his namesake: Maurice Lopez Bury was born in 2012.
Acknowledgements
Walking Out of War, like the previous volumes Army of Worn Soles and Under the Nazi Heel, would not have been possible without the help and support of a large number of people.
First, I have to thank Maurice, himself, for being an inspiration and for sharing his memories and knowledge.
Thanks to his daughter, my wife, Roxanne, for her memories of her father and for the love and support over these many years.
Thanks to Gary Henry for being such a professional, eagle-eyed and supportive editor—not just for finding problems, but for pointing to the best solution every time.
Thanks to beta readers Elise Stokes and Frederick Lee Brooke for making excellent suggestions and for pointing out errors and problems that I missed, even after going through the manuscript I can’t tell you how many times.
Thanks to David C. Cassidy for another outstanding cover that captures the essence of the story perfectly. Again.
And thanks to Joy Lorton, the Typo-Detective, for proofreading so assiduously, professionally and efficiently.
This book just would not be as good as it is without all their help.
About the author
I am a journalist, editor and novelist based in Ottawa, Canada. After more than 20 years of writing for magazines and newspapers like Macworld, the Financial Post, Applied Arts, the Ottawa Citizen and Graphic Arts Monthly, I decided to publish my first writing love, fiction. I published a children’s story, Sam, the Strawb Part in 2011. Later, I published an occult/paranormal short story for grown ups, Dark Clouds.