The next day, Anneliese and I cautiously traveled the 15 or so miles from Hohendolsleben to the relative safety of my family’s home in Püggen, where we could more easily stay hidden from local informers. A couple of days later, we warily recrossed the border with two backpacks crammed with all kinds of food, fortunately encountering no further incidents. Given the risk of capture and imprisonment, I would only make one further journey to our farm.
Even with the underlying concern that our presence would draw the attention of the Communist authorities, Anneliese and I fell into the routines of farm life with surprising ease during our second visit to Püggen late in the fall of 1946. After spending most of the day with my father and sisters passing the harvested bundles of grain through a leased threshing machine, my father suggested that we quit and finish up the following day. Since it was still just late afternoon and only about an hour of threshing remained, I convinced him that we should go ahead and complete the job.
Soon afterward, the tractor engine driving the threshing machine began to shoot out sparks that ignited the highly combustible straw nearby. In spite of our vigorous efforts to quench the fire, the whole barn was soon engulfed by flames. Though we succeeded in preventing the blaze from spreading to the other buildings, it nonetheless proved to be the worst disaster that we ever experienced on our farm. Because I had urged my father to finish the job, I naturally felt responsible, but there was nothing I could do.
In the spring of 1947, after convincing me that she would be safe traveling alone, Anneliese made the border crossing to Püggen to retrieve another backpack of food for us. Her willingness to face the hazards involved reflected both daring as well as a little naiveté. While her first solo journey across proved uneventful, her second trip soon afterward ran into trouble.
Following her return, Anneliese recounted to me how she had almost stumbled into a Red Army patrol the previous night near the border. Fortunately, the troops did not see her and she was able to hide in a nearby farmer’s barn. In the morning, the farmer had come out to feed his cows and discovered her. Despite the risk to himself, he allowed her to leave without revealing her presence to the Communist authorities.
After hearing the story of her close call, I refused to allow her to attempt any further expeditions across the Iron Curtain. When I consider the danger now, it is difficult for me to understand how I could have consented to place my wife in such jeopardy even once. Indeed, my willingness to countenance the risk to her safety is the best illustration of the desperation we felt during those years.
In April 1947, I finally entered the electrical engineering program at the Federal Engineering College in Hamburg. Although I had been permitted to work and receive wages as a journeyman electrician for several months before entering school, I only officially passed the qualifying exam to become a journeyman in July. While a journeyman’s income was more than adequate to support my family, I realized even before beginning my college studies that I could not work even part-time as an electrician if I planned to be a full-time student.
After attending the first semester of college in Hamburg, I spent the remaining four semesters at a different college in Wolfenbüttel, just outside the city of Braunschweig. With me now unemployed and Anneliese unable to find work, I was forced to request a loan of 1, 000 Marks from my Uncle Stork, who owned an Opel auto dealership in Lüneburg. Even with these funds, our overall living conditions in Wolfenbüttel were slightly worse than they had been back in Hamburg, where we had at least received occasional produce from Herr Berndt’s nursery.
Though we greatly appreciated Marlene’s delivery of a couple of packages of food from Püggen, her efforts did not fundamentally improve the food situation for Anneliese and me. Sometimes, I was driven to take desperate measures. On two occasions I pawned our wedding rings that the jeweler had crafted while I was in Dresden. On another occasion when there was no money, I snuck into a farm field about a quarter of a mile from our apartment to pick beans. It was stealing, but I was determined to do what was necessary to feed us.
While my family in Püggen still had enough to eat, they faced increasing tribulations as the Communist government intensified its control over farms. To prevent the consumption of animals without official permission, officials began visiting farms regularly to conduct counts of the livestock. During one of these inspections, my sister Christa snuck two small lambs into her bedroom, only barely managing to muffle the noise of their bleating.
My family also experienced more targeted harassment from the Communist government. Though the official pressure (or intimidation) partly resulted from our family’s failure to fulfill the unrealistically high quota of crop production a couple of times, it also stemmed from my father’s willingness to speak publicly against the Communist Party in Püggen.
In the postwar years, my father regularly made annual visits to see my uncle and other family in Hagen. While he was away on one of these visits in late 1948, our local Lutheran Church pastor, Herr Schmerschneider, visited my mother and warned her that my father would likely be arrested upon his return from the west. When my father learned of this threat, he made the difficult decision to remain in Hagen at my uncle’s home. The ensuing separation from my mother and sisters would last for years.
Meanwhile, after initially transferring from a POW camp in the United States to one in England, my brother Otto finally returned to Germany in May 1948, three years after the end of the war. On his arrival, he stayed with Anneliese and me for a couple of weeks in Wolfenbüttel, where I attempted to convince him to bring his longtime girlfriend to live in the western zone after their marriage. Instead, he chose to live with her in the eastern zone where she could remain close to her family. He later regretted their decision when they became permanently stuck there. Both episodes with my family members reflected the heartrending personal consequences of Germany’s political division.
During my last year of college in Wolfenbüttel, Anneliese became pregnant. When we were out for a stroll one evening during her eighth month, she accidentally tripped and fell to the ground, landing on her belly. Afraid to let her walk home, I found a small child’s wagon and carted her back to our apartment. Anneliese’s fall left her with a large bruise on her stomach, but fortunately did not lead to any medical complications. In June 1949, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Harald.
The hardships that Anneliese and I shared together only seemed to reinforce the bond between us. Despite the challenges in our marriage, the late 1940s was a surprisingly contented time for us, simply because we were at last together after the many painful years of separation and uncertainty during the war.
Chapter 19
A NEW LIFE ABROAD
1949–Present
LEAVING OUR HOMELAND
After I graduated with my long-sought electrical engineering degree (Diplom Ingenieur-Fach) in August 1949, I immediately accepted a position with H.F.C. Müller in Hamburg, a subsidiary of Phillips Electronics. My new job involved selling and servicing X-Ray machines and other medical equipment.
Based in Wolfenbüttel, I constantly traveled by train around a region stretching from the Harz Mountains to the North Sea, calling on dentists, doctors and hospitals. When one of the doctors asked to test our equipment by X-raying my hand, his examination revealed a metal splinter from a Russian shell lodged in one of my fingers. After removing the splinter, he bought our machine.
Though well-paid employment was very hard to come by in postwar Germany, I did not feel fulfilled by my work. It was not just a lack of any natural talent in sales; I simply drew no satisfaction from the job. My hope of finding a different position that involved active, hands-on work that utilized my engineering background was discouraged by the very limited opportunities available at that time. The subtle role that social status played in influencing hiring decisions also aggravated me. I wanted to be judged on my ability, not on whether I came from an aristocratic background.
Even more ominously, the Cold War had i
ntensified in 1948 during a confrontation between the Western Allies and the Soviet Union over access to the western sector of Berlin. While the Western Allies responded to the Russian blockade with an airlift rather than with force, Cold War tensions and the threat of potential military hostilities in Europe persisted into the early 1950s. Listening to the news, the outbreak of war seemed more likely to me than a continuance of the fragile peace.
If a new conflict started, there was little doubt that the government would immediately call me back into service because of my military experience. Communist Russia was still a threat to Germany, but I felt that six years of soldiering, mostly in combat, had fulfilled any duty that I owed to my country. My first responsibility was now to take care of my wife and child.
In the early summer of 1951, the international situation and postwar economic problems seemed to offer little promise of a secure and prosperous future in Germany. I increasingly began to think that I could best protect and provide for my family elsewhere. After anguishing over Germany’s condition and our family’s financial circumstances, Anneliese and I finally reached the very difficult decision to emigrate from our homeland. Our plan was to live and work in another country for a decade or so, until our family’s financial condition had improved, the German economy had fully recovered, and the threat of war had diminished.
Our first choice was to go to Argentina, where many other Germans had emigrated, but I was not able to speak Spanish. Although speaking French better than English at that time, I thought we would have the greatest opportunity to build the life that we wanted in the United States. Commonly viewed as a land of opportunity for immigrants, America was the natural choice. Disappointed to learn that the quota for German immigrants to the United States was already filled, Anneliese and I settled on going to Canada.
After deciding to emigrate to Canada, I continued to work out of Wolfenbüttel for Müller until I received my Canadian visa three months later. In August 1951 we sold our few pieces of furniture, raising just enough cash for me to purchase three ship tickets to Canada. Anneliese and Harald would temporarily remain behind with Anneliese’s father in Hamburg, while I sought employment and a place for us to live.
My education and determination to carve out a better life for my family provided me with skills and motivation. Yet making a fresh start overseas would be a struggle given my lack of money, connections, and limited command of the language. A deep sense of uncertainty pervaded my thoughts as I prepared to set out alone.
The temporary separation from my wife and son in Germany would be difficult enough. Even more painful was the knowledge that we would be leaving behind our families and native land. Though it was not something that factored into our thinking at the time, I recognize now that our plan must have come as a great shock to my close-knit family, particularly my mother. Since almost my entire family resided behind the Iron Curtain, I could not even say goodbye to them in person. They only learned about our decision to leave Germany in a letter.
At the Hamburg train station, I bade farewell to my father-in-law, Anneliese, and my son. Everyone was crying as I boarded the railroad car to start my journey for the trip across France to the port of Calais. When the train reached Lüneburg half an hour later on its first stop, I met my father on the platform and embraced him in another difficult goodbye.
Heavy-hearted, I departed my loved ones, not knowing where I would build a new life for my family or when we would see each other again. Perhaps only six years of war could have hardened me to leave them and my homeland for an unknown future.
CANADA: August 1951–July 1956
During the train trip to the coast of France, I received my first impression of what to expect on the other side of the Atlantic. Conversing in English with an American couple sitting next to me, the question of what I would do if I developed a hole in my socks somehow came up. In response, I told them that I would probably have to mend it myself since I was alone.
Somewhat dismayed by my comment, the American woman informed me that they did not do that in the United States. If a pair of socks developed a hole, Americans would simply throw them away and buy a new pair. I thought that Americans must be rich to live so extravagantly.
Departing from Calais in mid-August, I soon discovered that an empty 1,500-ton freighter bobs like a cork on the ocean. Half seasick, my only hope was for a rapid crossing. However, a hurricane in the middle of the Atlantic forced our captain to sail back toward France until the storm passed. Ultimately, a voyage that should have taken eight days lasted two weeks.
Finally reaching the town of Mont-Joli at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River on Quebec’s Gaspé Peninsula on August 27, I disembarked from the ship with two suitcases, a radio, and about ten dollars in my pocket. In order to earn an extra five dollars, I spent a day working on the dock loading pulpwood aboard the freighter for its return trip. Already missing Anneliese and Harald terribly, I would have embarked on the return voyage if it had been possible.
Using a train ticket provided by the Canadian government, I set out on the 350-mile trip down to Montreal. As an electrical engineer, the first thing that drew my attention was that the power and phone lines were strung between poles above ground, instead of being buried as in Europe. There would be many more such differences that I would encounter in the coming months.
After completing my processing as a Canadian immigrant in Montreal, I stored my suitcases in a locker and immediately began to hunt for a job in one of the local factories. With my limited funds I could not even afford to take buses or streetcars and was forced to walk for miles.
At the end of my first day, I was exhausted and my feet ached. Even my mind was fatigued from my immersion in a mixture of French and English. Despite my greater fluency in French, the heavily accented Québecois French made it almost as difficult for me to comprehend as English.
Returning to my room at the hostel that first night, I met the Swedish man with whom I would share a bed and instantly fell asleep. In the middle of the night, I came awake to a hand groping me from across the bed. In a shocked stupor, I stumbled to my feet. Already under strain, I was confronted with a bizarre situation that I had never before faced. In my groggy anger I wanted to punch the guy out, but that meant risking trouble with the police.
Uncertain what to do, I knew that I could not remain in the room. Quickly packing my suitcases, I headed out into the street about three o’clock in the morning. Craving rest, it was the last place I wanted to be. Locating another place to stay after a long hunt through the neighborhood, I fell back asleep asking myself whether I had made an awful mistake in leaving Germany.
Despite my doubts, I renewed my search for work the following morning. While Canadian businesses acknowledged my years of practical experience working as an electrician, they did not recognize any German engineering degree. At the end of the week, I was unable to afford to search further and accepted a more menial job as an electrician at Sorel Industries, Ltd. Located in the Montreal suburb of Longueuil, it is one of the largest heavy equipment manufacturers in eastern Canada.
During the day I would disassemble, clean, and reassemble electrical motors. In the evening, I would return to my new hostel. A couple of weeks after finding a job, I was eating supper in a restaurant near my lodgings. To my amazement, a Canadian soldier sitting beside me picked up where my Swedish roommate had left off. Already very homesick, this episode further magnified my loneliness and unhappiness.
Meanwhile, back in Germany, Anneliese ran short of money but was too proud to ask for financial help. To avoid making such an embarrassing request, she went to a shop where she pawned some of our few remaining valuables. This gave her just enough cash to survive until her departure.
About three weeks after I started work, my prospects greatly improved when Sorel shifted me to much more interesting work as a draftsman. They needed a German-speaking engineer to assist them in exploiting captured schematics of a German design that would be used to build a fo
ur-barreled weapons system for the U.S. Navy. Now earning enough money to support myself adequately and rent a one-room apartment in the center of Montreal, I was ready to welcome Anneliese and Harald.
Following three long months of separation, they finally arrived in Canada on the ocean liner Homeline in October 1951, bringing an end to my isolation. With our finances rapidly improving, we quickly moved from our cramped residence in the center of the city into a larger apartment across the St. Lawrence River in Longueuil, closer to my job. On October 9, 1952, our daughter Marion was born. Our family and happiness grew together.
Of course, there were also challenges that we experienced as we made our new lives. As a young German boy who spoke with an accent, Harald probably faced the hardest adjustment. Early on, he got into a couple of fistfights with another kid at school because of his limited English, but it was nothing too serious.
There were also advantages to life in Canada as Anneliese and I discovered when we found that a pound of the animal lard that we liked to use as a spread for bread and for cooking oil was priced at only 15 cents. While we had considered lard to be a luxury item back in Germany, we now enjoyed slathering it on everything we ate, at least until we learned how unhealthy it was.
In May 1953, Anneliese and I decided to leave Montreal in pursuit of better career opportunities in the city of Hamilton, Ontario, located 375 miles to the southwest. Almost immediately after our arrival, I accepted an offer from The Steel Company of Canada, which operated the largest steel plant in the country. After working there as a draftsman for a couple of months, the company transferred me to the engineering department and placed me in charge of maintaining an electric arc furnace.
An arc furnace is a brick-lined container with a moveable roof. After loading scrap iron into the container and closing the roof, the operator extends three moving electrodes down through the roof of the container to create an electric arc that melts the scrap iron. Electric furnaces had previously been used to melt scrap steel into iron, but we utilized a recently developed technology that gave an arc furnace the capacity to produce high-quality steel from scrap steel.
At Leningrad's Gates Page 26