To The
West
Midsummer
of 1944. For the last time we walked along the terrace of our sunny
veranda. Our turn had come. Once again we were leaving our house like
other war evacuees. Burdened with heavy rucksacks we started towards
the highway, pushing our bikes. Mother and Jurek came to see us off.
This parting stuck in my mind for a long time. Jurek was chatting
happily, sitting on the frame of my bike and ringing the bell. Mother
was walking behind, kneading her handkerchief nervously. The dogs were
dragging at their chains, barking madly. In front of the veranda, in a
low chair, sat one of the billeted officers looking indifferent and
bored at our departure. We passed the creek. On the highway the
military policeman stood guard. When we came to the highway he stopped
a military vehicle to check documents. As the car was empty, the
soldier agreed to give us a lift to Kaunas. There was no time for
further farewell. We secured our bikes and the car started to move.
Three
figures were standing on the wide highway - my mother, our little son
and the guard in a helmet. The distance separating us grew quickly,
the figures grew smaller. Our Jurek, in his white cap, was already
just a blurred spot on the long highway. We climbed the hill and far
away I could still see the wavy field of rye, barley and oats that I
had sown with my own bare hands. On the top of the hill we could still
see our house with its white shutters, its windowpanes reflecting the
sun. And that disappeared too. There was left ... only a dot on the
map.
During
our future homeless wandering we looked often with longing at this dot
on the map, remembering the moment of our separation from our dear
ones.
In
Kaunas the atmosphere was very tense. Some of the German officers were
already evacuated. The streets leading to the railway station were
crowded with evacuees, burdened with suitcases and bundles. In front
of many houses carts were being loaded. Through the city passed
endless columns of evacuees from the country. Tree coves were treading
awkwardly on the asphalt and dogs, scared of the city noises, were
trying to hide under the carts. Barge 'bridgkas' (carts), ladder
wagons and Russian telegas were going through the city to cross the
bridge over the River Niemen, their peculiar noises filling the town
and reverberating from the brick walls.
Our
intention had been to travel by bikes, without documents, as evacuees.
However we were told that trains were still leaving Kaunas in the
direction of the German frontier but only people who had travel
permits issued by the military were allowed over the frontier, or
those who could prove that they were going to work in Germany. The
second seemed easier to achieve. The 'Arbeitsamt' (employment office)
had opened a new office in a former travel agency and, after years of
poor results, was now reaping a good harvest. There were many volunteers
looking far work and permits to enter Germany. How ironic - what the
German military police were unable to achieve was achieved in a few
days by the nearing Front. A long queue of men of military age, and
women, were waiting in front of the new 'travel agency'. In their
windows were still the old posters from Tyrol, palaces along the Rhine
and old German towns. Between those old photos for the tourists was
written: "See the beauty of the German towns".
The
officials of the Arbeitsamt were as polite as the employees from the
previous travel agency. Showing a large map of the Third Reich, they
were pointing out all the beauty of different regions. Everyone was
allowed to choose the place of his desired destination according to
his tourist taste or his hidden political calculations. Very politely
they stipulated only one condition: upon arrival you had to report to
the nearest Arbeitsamt - only then were you issued with a travel
permit and a free railway pass.
Our
aim was Warsaw. We wanted to reach Poland and there await future
events. But entrance to the General Komimissariat (the name given to
central Poland) was prohibited. On the map I found the nearest point
to it - it was Modlin that was shown on the map as belonging to the
Third Reich. Within minutes we had nice stamped documents stating that
I, as a farm labourer, and wife Maria were travelling to Germany with
permanent residence in Modlin.
The
transport was to leave the next day and so now the bikes were not
required. At home we re-packed our rucksacks again, fighting off the
generosity of my mother-in-low who tried to equip us like an
expedition to the North Pole. No arguments were of use. Neither that
the war would not last very long nor that we had plenty of relatives
in Poland who would help us; nor the argument that it is not advisable
to be overloaded with a heavy burden. She strongly believed that in
Poland people were starving. Therefore, next morning we left with huge
bread loaves, a few kilograms of fat and lard, butter and dry sausages
plus two changes of clothing.
Again
a sad parting. Our little son Roman, just over a year old, could not
speak yet and was only producing some funny sounds. I didn't know what
he was trying to tell us. He was laughing happily when we kissed him
and waved his tiny hands. He gave us his most charming smile when we
were leaving. This was the way he stayed in my mind.
The
station was full of evacuees. No ticket control or information. Nobody
knew anything about a transport of labourers to Germany. At the second
platform stood a long military transport and some evacuees were trying
to board it. This transport was going to East Prussia. Not waiting for
anything else, we climbed onto the open lorries. Marushka's parents,
who accompanied us to the station, heaved up the rucksacks into the
lorries. As we started to climb down to have one more kiss, there was
a sudden signal and the train began to move. We stayed on the train
and just looked at her parents who were waving a white handkerchief.
The white handkerchief was not only a sign of farewell but also a
symbol of submission to the new rulers of bleeding Lithuania.
One
could already hear the Front. On the River Niemen, floating towards
the open sea, were bodies of German soldiers.
Our
dearest ones stayed in Lithuania waiting for their destiny. Leaving
them, our roads parted and we started once again on our road of
evacuees.
The
wagon in which we travelled was very deep - like a freighter without
doors and cut-off roof. It was packed with machinery, probably from
the evacuated factories. The rest was filled with boxes and ammunition
on which the soldiers and evacuees were sitting. Above us was the open
sky. The train was travelling fast, the wind was cool and pleasant.
The start of our travel was favourable as we had expected a lot worse
and going by bike along dusty, crowded roads did not seem so
attractive.
The
train entered the large forests of Kozlowa Ruda. The warm fir trees
smelled strongly of resin. The wind died down. The white clouds from
the engine were lying lazily on the top of the trees. All seemed
peaceful; so good for taut nerves. But we knew that in these forests
were large groups of partisans and more than one train had been
derailed here. The mines hidden between the rails were a terror to the
driver. We were travelling on a military transport, sitting on boxes
of ammunition, looking around anxiously. The engine braked and we
arrived at the station Kozlowa Ruda. Some travellers left, taking
their numerous luggage. They probably intended to await the Front in
some of the small villages, hidden in the forest.
The
German soldiers with whom we travelled looked tired and depressed.
They were not talkative but told us that the railway to Olite was cut
off and therefore they had to make this detour through East Prussia to
reach the front lines near the lakes of Augustowo. It was evening when
we arrived in Virbalis. This was the frontier station between 'Ostland'
and the Great German Reich or, to call it simply, the previous
boundary between Lithuania and Germany.
On
the station was a teeming mass of people. All platforms were packed
with luggage and crying children hanging on to the luggage. People
were trying to push in all directions looking for information about
next trains. On a siding stood an open goods train. Some of the wagons
were completely furnished - wide beds, robes with mirrors and crates
and suitcases, tables covered with plates and food. These were the
privileged evacuees, employees of the General Kommissar Ostland.
Leaving the burning east, they were taking home to their Fatherland
all that they were able to amass during their fat years of occupation.
Going
over the iron bridge above the rails we reached the first platform
where we were promptly told to leave as it was strictly for the army.
In the first-class waiting room we met many Lithuanian professionals
and white-collar workers. They were also evacuees, mainly from Kaunas.
They had nice leather suitcases, their wives had their hair set, were
nicely manicured and carried expensive fur coats over their arms. On
the wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, hung a huge picture
of Hitler. The thought of sleeping on a station was not attractive.
Marushka remembered that a friend of hers was living on a nearby farm
with his family - Messrs. Gromadzki. Asking for directions, we went to
find them. After a few kilometres the rucksacks began to feel heavier.
I don't know how long it would have taken us to cover the eight
kilometres but we were lucky to be given a lift by a peasant who was
returning from the mill. Sitting on the bags of flour, he brought us
right into the front yard of the homestead. It was midnight. All was
dark, completely quiet, no sign of life. Under the deceptive light of
the moon, I examined some barns until I stumbled to the front of a
house, or rather the porch which was supported by columns. All
shutters were closed. This had to be the house of the owner. Shyly and
gently we started knocking at the door for maybe ten minutes or more.
Nobody came to the door. We started to knock louder and then even
banging. Still without results. Leaving our belongings, we went in
search of other doors. There were five of them. We tried them all,
banging as loud as we could. The house remained silent and dead. I
started swearing - gone was the shyness of an uninvited guest. I
wanted to get in. After unsuccessfully trying all shutters, I noticed
on the second floor two windows without shutters. Taking some twigs, I
started throwing them gently on those windows, being careful not to
break the glass. At last - a window opened and a human head looked
out.
"Does
Mr. Gromadzki live here?" I called. A female voice confirmed
this. I gave our names and a short explanation. The window was shut
but there was some movement from within. Between the cracks, of the
shutters we could see light and at last the bolts and padlocks were
removed.
In
the hall we were cordially greeted by the elderly owner of the house.
He was dressed in pyjamas and the housekeeper in a nightdress. She
was holding a candle in her hand. Our friend was sick in bed. The
explanation for the unresponsive house was quite simple. The remaining
people were sleeping on the second floor with their windows facing the
park and so the ground floor was empty. The friendly owner directed us
to a spare bedroom where we went to sleep immediately.
It
was a hundred kilometres to the Front.
Next
morning after being fed and having a good wash, we went into the town
for information. As we had no luggage and were clean, the police did
not bother us, probably taking us for local people. All evacuees were
directed to barracks where there was an information centre for
transports as well as the de-lousing centre. It was a whole set of
small, long buildings covered with tar-boards, surrounded by a high
fence and barbed wire. Near the fence bartering was blooming. Behind
the fence - well known to us - the camp life of the east labourer.
Tired women hanging their washing, badly dressed and dirty children
playing on the dirty ground. The gate was open. We decided that
Marushka should go to enquire as her German was faultless and I would
wait in a nearby street. It was nearly an hour before I saw her
returning. The guard at the gate did not stop her and I relaxed. In
the administration centre she met an old acquaintance from Kaunas.
They had a long chat and he was able to inform her fully. To our
disappointment, we learned that the last transport with civilians had
left yesterday and that the border, as from last night, was closed by
the S.D. (Security Service) until further notice. Permits would be
issued individually after a check by S.D. Nobody seemed to know the
reason for these orders. We had to wait. After returning to the
homestead we found more evacuees from Kaunas. They were relatives and
friends of Mr. Gromadzki. Some, like us, wanted to leave Lithuania;
others, like our host, wanted to stay. They were certain that the
Front could not possibly go further west, that the Germans would push
the Soviets back further away from their own border. To this group, so
trusting in the power of the Germans, belonged two new arrivals who
had with them an unbelievable number of suitcases and a crate of
bacon. They were two professors from the Kaunas University, one of
them a well-known surgeon.
Our
daily walks to the town brought no results. The frontiers remained
closed and there was no news about a new transport for civilians.
There
were more and more people in the farmyard. Evacuees were sleeping in
the empty barns. The squire was despairing as carts and horses were
requisitioned and taken away. Arguing angrily he rushed around the
farm, returned to his salon and played Chopin's music on the grand
piano to calm his nerves. This large old-fashioned antique salon was
now the only place where quiet still existed. This room was rather a
relic and worth remembering.
Long,
narrow windows were covered with vines. The glass door led to a large
front porch with columns. Only a little sun filtered through, lifting
the dimness of the room. Some sunrays were touching the gilded
furniture in the style of the French Empire. Old glass door bookcases
contained books and magazines from the previous century. Green
tapestry covered the couches and chairs which were dainty with
beautiful carved legs. But these legs sometimes had no support as the
floor started to rot and pieces of board were missing. In some places
one could even see the dark, mouldy foundations. No-one had repaired
this floor for a long time. In one corner stood an antique clock, long
out of order. The long brass pendulum rested between heavy cobwebs in
its glass case. Time had stopped symbolically. If the tall,
grey-haired squire played too long, his housekeeper, a big Lithuanian
woman rushed into the room, saying:
"Sir,
you are just playing this old music and playing, and the Front is
coming nearer. People are fleeing and we have not even packed. A pig
must be killed - we must have food, not music. God has punished me
with you, Sir. Nobody is thinking here - everything rests on my poor
shoulders."
This
poor woman could not understand her employers. The old squire said
that his son must take charge as everything would be his very soon.
But the son, a slightly sentimental chemical engineer, was partly a
researcher and partly a musician and was not keen to make any
decisions in these uncertain times. He took the way of least
resistance saying that the Front might be stopped before reaching
them. It was true that no-one made decisions or looked after the farm.
On
the fourth day of our stay the head of the village brought the
following German Order: All people, male and female between the age of
fifteen and fifty, permanent and temporary residents of this shire,
must assemble tomorrow at eleven in the morning on the market place of
the town. They must take with them food for three days. They will be
employed in digging trenches against tanks. Those who disobey these
orders will be punished by death.
There
was great confusion on the farm. People did not know what to do.
Should one go and dig? If not, how could one avoid it? Arguments broke
out and it seemed that the discussions would go on forever. We decided
to leave and, thanking our host for his hospitality and kindness, we
departed immediately. Our first stop was the border town. The order
did not apply to people living in the town. Here again our luck held.
At the Post Office we met Marushka's old friend, Wanda. The girls were
friends from early childhood. By the end of the First World War both
their parents were evacuees from Soviet Russia, going together to
Lithuania. The girls remained friends throughout all these years. She
was one of the bridesmaids at our wedding. Now, in the hard and
uncertain times, they were together again. Wanda took us immediately
to her house and, being extremely hospitable, even gave us her own
room. The house was on the outskirts of the town, right on the
boundary. From the windows we could see the barbed wires of the
frontier that were in a wheat field. On the other side of the wire
were German sentries whose main duty was to catch those who tried to
enter Germany illegally. The trains going through Virbalis (the last
Lithuanian station) to Eydkau (the first German station) had no
checking of documents but, on the German side, the S.D. were hunting
those who had no proper permits. All their belongings were taken away
and they were transported back to Virbalis barracks.
In
the meantime, just in case, we obtained de-lousing papers which were
essential for entering Germany. I doubt if even a letter written by
the Fuehrer would absolve one from it. De-lousing proceeded as
follows: the culprit had to take off all his clothing which went to
disinfection chambers where they were slightly charred and buttons
crushed. Very unpleasant if you had trouser buttons. Now quite naked,
holding his boots in his hands. The water was tepid and there was no
soap. The one pleasant thing was that, during this ritual, one was
attended by female employees. After the de-lousing, the abashed
culprit had to proceed, still naked, to the office, still holding his
boots in his hands. Here he was issued with a de-lousing certificate -
this time by a military orderly.
Next
day the same fatal order to dig trenches was issued here but this time
it was signed by the mayor as well. The order was headed
"everyone to the trenches,” and placards appeared all over the
town. The following day round-up began in the streets. Even the
Germans and the Volksdeutsche had to go, leaving their belongings,
children and old people on the German side.
We
now understood why the frontier was closed. The people in the barracks
were grouped into columns and, under military police guard, turned
back towards the Front to dig trenches. I was told that they were
going for ten days only. It was getting harder to keep avoiding
round-ups organised by the S.D. We did not venture into the street but
stayed indoors. But even that was not safe as next day the houses were
searched. One day a policeman came to Wanda's house searching for
people who tried to avoid the issued order. This time we were rescued
by Wanda's tenant, a men's hairdresser. She understood immediately why
the policeman had come and asked him to the dining room where she
offered him a large cup of vodka and some food, then she went to the
next room where I was sitting and, taking a handful of cigarettes from
me, returned to the policeman and, giving him the cigarettes,
announced quite firmly that no-one was in the house. After a second
glass of vodka, the policeman was at last 'quite convinced'. This time
we were saved ... but for how long? The situation was getting worse
each day between the closed frontier and the approaching Front. We
decided to have one more try at the military command post. We heard
that some civilians, having military travel permits, were allowed to
cross the border. We concocted the following story: Marushka, who had
been employed in Kaunas as an interpreter in the maintenance workshops
of military vehicles (H.K.F.F. - Heeres Kraftfahepark), still had her
employment card with her. This document was the cornerstone of our
story. She had to say that, being an employee of this military
establishment, she had received orders for evacuation, together with
her offices. Her husband, being a labourer in the workshops (but with
no documents to support it), was also evacuated. As all workshops had
left and already crossed the border, we were trying to catch up with
them, having missed our evacuation transport. The documents of her
husband were with the major of the military workshop. Marushka took
the hard mission. By the way, during war it is much easier for females
to get results with doubtful missions.
It
was more than an hour before I saw Marushka coming back. She was
happily waiving documents stamped with all the necessary stamps and a
travel permit stating that we belonged to the German Army civilian
workshop staff. The paper not only entitled us to cross the border but
gave us the right to use all available transport in the German Reich.
The point of our destination was Modlin. Marushka was able to convince
the unsuspecting military adjutant of the East Command that her
workshops were going to this town. In the future, this document gave
us tremendous help. I have to point out that in Germany rubber-stamped
documents are much valued and respected.
The
same day we passed the barrier with our rucksacks. We were directed to
the Customs House. All the checking was 'performed by the S.D. Our
documents received a new rubber stamp including the de-lousing
certificate, and were dated 17th July, 1944.
We
continued along the same street but now it was called Adolf Hitler
Strasse and the town was now called Eydkau. Going towards the station
we saw the differences in the same town. Already here it looked quite
different from the 'Ostland'. The market place was paved with bricks,
smooth stones, and not with cobblestones. Near it was a typical town
hall, a town hall library, a city chemist and a guesthouse. Near the
station was a hospital. At last we arrived at the 'Bahnhof' (station).
A large placard on the station read "The wheels are rolling for
victory". A company of boys from the Hitler Youth passed us. The
boys were dressed in their dark uniforms and were carrying shovels,
holding them like rifles. They also were being sent to dig trenches.
They looked happy and proud and were singing military songs. On the
benches some German women were sitting. They were not talking but
following the boys with their eyes and knitting grey socks.
The
big waiting room was empty. An elderly waiter was reading a newspaper.
It was strange to think that only 500 metres away there were such
crowds of people occupying station buildings, platforms, streets and
highways and large barracks. All were fleeing from the approaching
Russians.
A
few hours later we were travelling by train in the direction of
Insterburg. We saw a goods train going in the opposite direction
carrying tanks and their crews. The soldiers were lying on the floor,
sunbaking. Some were watching the sky, standing guard near their
anti-aircraft guns.
Near
us sat a tank corpsman in a torn uniform, thin and badly shaven.
Looking at the transport going towards the Front, he was shaking and
cursing loudly. He swore that he would rather be dead than return to
the Soviet Front. Through the window we could see bunkers, various
cement reinforcements and barbed wires between the ripening wheat
fields. All still looked peaceful and quiet. On the horizon we could
see the lakes of Mazury.
It
was dark when we arrived at Insterburg. We had to change trains- the
next one was leaving in the morning. There was no hope of getting
sleeping accommodation in town as it was very overcrowded, especially
with bombed-out Berliners. We spent the night on benches in the
waiting room. Next morning we continued our travel.
Next
stop was Olsztyn where we had to change trains again. Here already was
the atmosphere of the nearby Front as we were nearing the actual front
lines, Malkina and Lomza. Again the station was packed with people and
their belongings, again the military police were checking. Waiting for
our train, I studied a large map hanging on the wall showing the
timetables and railway connections. I noticed that there still existed
a railway connection between Olsztyn and Warsaw going through
Ostrolenka. The next train was due in half an hour. Suddenly I got an
idea to try and go straight to Warsaw using our documents which had
already opened one border for us. Our post of destination was marked
Modlin. The way through Warsaw was a lot shorter than through Mlawy,
Ciechanow and Nasiels. It should seem natural that we were trying to
use the shortest route. The old cashier was not too happy, explaining
that the border to the General Commissariat was closed to all
civilians but he relented seeing that our documents were supported by
military authority and our argument that we should be passing only as
transit passengers. He issued the tickets but warned us that we were
not to hold him responsible if we were stopped at both frontier
stations. The frontiers here were rather complicated as there were two
of them; one between the previous East Prussia and Poland, the second
one between the German Reich and the General Commissariat. Of course
there was some risk, but without risk we could not achieve our aim.
The
desire to reach Warsaw was soon so great that very shortly we were
travelling on a small, slow train using one-way railway lines in the
direction of Ostrolenka. The nearer we came to the Front, the more
hectic the atmosphere became. The slogan: “To the Trenches" was
everywhere. The train filled with people carrying shovels and
pickaxes. On the small stations were boys and old men all with
rucksacks and shovels. They were kissing and hugging before their
departure, leaving on the platform groups of crying females. Many of
them already had sons or husbands in the army - now they had to say
farewell to their old and their children. The Fuehrer was taking the
last ones away.
Through
the open window the young boys were calling "Heil Hitler, Mummy,
Heil Hitler". Although it was raining, the 'mummys' were standing
for a long time on the platform, their faces wet with rain and tears.
"Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler" - the sound remained in their
ears.
In
the compartment the mood was gloomy. Yet in the rain, the peasants
were puffing their pipes and holding their shovels between their
knees. The force of the rain and wind increased - a storm was
approaching. The sky was rent by sudden lightning and the thunder
seemed to growl - Bellum
Vobiscum. We felt the electricity in the air and our anxiety
increased. In one corner sat a group of Poles. They spoke in whispers
between themselves. Their clothing was torn and they had a large
letter 'P' on a yellow patch sewn onto the back of their garments.
They also had shovels - they were the forced labourers. This time they
and their masters were sitting on the same benches and travelling in
the same direction to do the same job.
The
storm passed, and the rain had stopped when, in the evening, we
arrived at Ostrolenka, now called Scharfenwiese. As the train did not
continue in our intended direction we had to change. The front was
only 40 km away. On the platform there were many soldiers with helmets
and packed rucksacks. At a siding stood a train full of tanks. Pushing
our way through the crowds, we went for information which turned out
to be quite depressing. No-one was allowed to cross the border without
special military documents and approval by S.D. One train should leave
at 3 a.m. in the direction of Warsaw but it was reserved for soldiers
on leave. The offices of the Commandant were in the township, four
kilometres away. As a bus was just leaving, Marushka went to try her
luck. The waiting room was crowded and very stuffy. At the tables sat
tankmen in their dark uniforms and along the walls slept soldiers from
the infantry. Further away sat a Party member in his brown shirt,
hugging a German fraulein. At the counter two soldiers in German
uniforms were speaking with the barmaid in fluent Polish.
"Could
you find us somewhere a glass of beer?"
"I
told you, there isn't any,” replied the girl, pouting slightly.
"I
see, you are probably not friendly inclined towards us because of the
uniforms we are wearing, therefore there is no beer for us. You think
us traitors,” he continued with irony.
I
could not hear her reply as soldiers at the nearby table started to
laugh loudly. Their table was covered with Party leaflets and one
soldier was reading aloud about some soldier who, with his machine
gun, killed fifty Soviets, lost his leg but received the Iron Cross of
1st Class.
One
of the men at the table commented "Beauty - he took his leg under
the arm, his Iron Cross in his hand and ran to his Frau to brag. The
stupid clot."
Roars
of laughter met his comment. I was quite astonished, one of the
tankmen raised his glass of water, the only liquid available, towards
the portrait of the Fuehrer which hung on the wall.
"Cheers,
my Fuehrer,” he called out, full of irony, "I am drinking your
health with this 'Wine of Geese' which you were generous enough to
provide, as well as for the refreshment supplied" he finished,
waving the leaflets. Other soldiers laughed and cheered.
The
Front was so close that they felt free and uninhibited. Himmler's
Party guardian angels were far away.
A
few hours passed. Night came. Soldiers stopped talking and were lying
down on the floor. It became quiet, only interrupted by snoring.
Marushka
had still not returned. I became worried. Another half hour passed and
my anxiety increased. At last she arrived. She was very tired and her
feet were wet and dirty, as she had to return by foot on an unknown
road in the darkness of the night. Unfortunately without any results.
She had tried various offices, even the Gestapo, but to no avail. The
border to Occupied Poland was closed. It was a depressing night.
Tired, dirty, without sleep, without a roof over our heads and a
completely unknown immediate future. In addition, military policemen
came and advised us that all lights had to be switched off as Soviet
bombers were over Ostrolenka and an alarm situation was announced. It
was not a pleasant thought to spend the rest of the night in a railway
station during a possible air raid. Marushka wanted to leave the
station building.
It
was impossible to push our way through the first class waiting room,
especially with our rucksacks. All the floor space was covered with
sleeping soldiers. It was so dark that we had to hold hands so as not
to get lost between this mass of human bodies. Outside it was again
raining heavily. We found an empty corner under the ticket counter
and, holding tightly to each other, slept heavily.
I
was awakened by new noises. Some of the soldiers were leaving. I asked
which train they were boarding and got a short reply - "To
Warsaw". It was like an electric shock. Marushka and I looked at
each other and, without further words, the decision was made. Taking
our rucksacks, we also went to the platform to try once again our
luck. Dawn was just breaking. On the platform were only soldiers, not
even one civilian. We certainly felt out of place. We pushed our way
in amongst the soldiers. On the platform stood a military policeman
with his helmet and his official metal shield on a chain around his
neck.
We
held our breath. At last we heard the engine and the train came to a
halt at the first platform. The train was reserved for the 'Wehrmacht'
only. The soldiers began to board the train, with us behind them. The
policeman shouted. Marushka rushed to him and, shoving her paper under
his nose, spoke in her fluent German. "This is my husband. We are
travelling on military permits and are entitled to use all transports
available to the army." He looked at the military rubber stripes
known to him and, before he could make up his mind, Marushka jumped
after me onto the train. The doors were closed and the train started
to move.
What
would happen to us now? Would there be another control point at the
other border point? We had no idea but we were moving towards Warsaw
and this was important. The train was going very fast, not stopping
anywhere.
One
hour, another half hour. I was watching, full of concentration. Again
a station - here was written the word "Tluszcz" - not a
German translation of the name. It meant we were in Poland proper at
last.
What
a joyous feeling when, on the station where the train stopped, all the
passengers boarding the train were speaking Polish. The atmosphere
changed too. There was a lot of talk, laughter, jokes, and all in
Polish. We also felt much safer now as before we were the only
civilians on the whole train. Now there were more civilians than army
men. Even officially our train changed its look. The Germans moved to
special wagons reserved for them and other cars had the sign 'For
Civilians'. The train was overcrowded but at each station more people
were boarding it. They were hanging on steps and lying on roofs as
there was certainly no more space inside. We passed Wolomin, Radzimin
and were entering Warsaw.
There
was a light drizzle that morning. We watched the stations as we
passed. At last Warsaw East. The train stopped. What an emotional
moment - the heart seemed to stop beating. After five long years we
were back again. "Do you see that is that where they sell soda
water?" I asked Marushka. It was here, five years ago, where we
met so miraculously, also here that we left Warsaw on the day of the
evacuation in September 1939.
The
hut was standing but the station was partly in ruins and we could see
some barracks being built. On the lower platform were three exits with
signs "For the Army,” "For Germans,” "For
Poles". Next to the exit for the army was a large board with the
following writing "Attention - Entering the town, have rifles at
the ready. There is danger of attack."
We
left the train at the main station, intending to go home by dorozka
(similar to a fiacre coach). Here we encountered our first surprise.
We had with us some 'Eastmark' as well as some German marks but the
driver informed us that in Warsaw only zloty were acceptable.
Therefore the idea to go by dorozka fell through. It was a fair
distance to my uncle's home at the end of Rakowiecka Street where we
intended to stay. We thought we might go by tram.
Near
the main station were a lot of people. Business was flourishing.
Before we reached the tram stop we were offered sweet cherries, ice
cream, socks, biros, books and saccharine. After a long wait, we
boarded the No.3 tram. Once more we were in trouble. The conductor
advised us that he was unable to accept anything but zloty. When I
told him that we were evacuees returning home after five years and we
had not even one zloty, he became very friendly and, patting me on the
shoulder, told us to continue travelling 'on the black'. A young
fellow, listening to my conversation with the conductor, pushed 5
zloty into my hand. When I thanked him and asked for his address so
that I could return the loan, he left his place and, wishing us all
the best, jumped off the tram. I returned with the money to the
conductor, wanting now to pay my fare. He refused to take the money.
"Look, sir, we are nearing the end of my line. Don't bother about
the ticket - keep these five zloty for a happy beginning." At the
last stop he helped us with our rucksacks. I was deeply touched by
this episode in the tram that somehow gave me encouragement to face
the future. We will survive among our own people, I thought,
hopefully. Our travel was nearing its end. Hardships, troubles and
obstacles were overcome. We passed the gate to the big block of flats
in Falata Street, No.6. Two flights up and we rang the bell. Hugs and
kisses, warm welcome, a hot bath, dinner and a well-deserved rest.
Lying in the comfortable bed, I looked at the well-known room. On the
walls, as before, were hanging the portraits of my grandparents. The
big calendar hanging on the wall showed the date as 19th July 1944.
Marushka was already asleep. From the room next to ours, I could hear
the ticking of the clock and, from the street, the noise of the
passing trams reached me. I also went to sleep.