We paid our guide the rest of the money and he wished us luck. Now we waited for our turn. The smugglers were the first to cross, then mother and me, followed by Roman and Mr Jurgens. Roman and I were watching the smugglers as they ran silently across the clearing one by one. The pines in the clearing were cut 2ft above the ground with stumps staggered at 3–4ft. The last smuggler to cross the clearing was an older man and he was carrying a heavy backpack. He stumbled midway and fell. The weight of his backpack prevented him from getting up quickly and he began calling out softly ‘Hilfe! Hilfe!’ (‘Help! Help!’) The other smugglers had crossed and were nowhere to be seen. Instinctively, Roman and I ran out, picked up the poor fellow by his backpack and dragged him to the other side. We got him up, and with a ‘Danke, danke,’ he disappeared.
We followed the guide’s directions, found the railway tracks and in about an hour arrived at the station. It was Christmas morning, 25 December 1946, and we were now in the Soviet Zone of Occupation.
PART 6
GERMANY
28
Berlin, 25–31 December 1946
We waited at the edge of the woods close to the train station. In the grey light of dawn, we stepped inside a small waiting room. A few customers had already made their purchases from a woman behind the ticket agent’s window. Mr Jurgens, who was fluent in German, approached the window when there was no one else in line. Roman stood nearby and blocked everyone’s view as his father passed four cartons of cigarettes to the ticket agent. As Mr Jurgens completed his business, he turned around and nodded slightly to us. Mother went up to the counter and repeated the transaction as I shielded her. The train arrived in daylight. There were only two passenger cars and everyone boarded at the stationmaster’s signal. The train moved along slowly, stopped at a few local stations and two hours later arrived at the end of the line. We got out and followed some of the other passengers along a highway leading to a pontoon bridge and the mainland. We had been warned to be particularly careful about a checkpoint at this crossing as the Communist German Security had been looking for escaping Poles. As we reached the bridge all foot traffic was funnelled into a narrow space where German security and Russian NKVD officers were stationed along with two Russian soldiers. The Germans were placed first in this security check; they carefully checked the papers and handed them over to a Russian, who did not bother with documents; instead, he scrutinised the person. We decided to split up, allowing a few people to move in line between each of us. When it was my turn, the German security guard noticed the name on my birth certificate and made a joking boxing gesture as I smiled back. He passed my ‘German’ birth certificate over to the Russian captain, who looked me over and he waved me across. We all passed through the security check and continued over the bridge, which bobbed as trucks drove across. We followed the road to Wolgast, where there was a larger train station. The waiting room was half-full. We found a corner to sit down and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. We had been warned that the local population could be hostile towards escaping Poles and were sure to turn them over to the Russians.
We sat on the bench and pretended to be dozing. The waiting room gradually filled. Still there was no train. There was no schedule; apparently there were only two trains a day from Berlin. Noon came and passed, 1 p.m., 3 p.m., still no train. Mother indicated that we should eat. We hadn’t eaten since the night before. She reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of smoked sausage and a roll. We started to eat slowly. Up until then, there had been a murmur of voices from the people packed into the room. That murmur started to fade until there was a silence around us. I lifted my eyes and realised that everyone was staring at the sausage and rolls, which we were eating. Fortunately, a whistle sounded and people started to stream out of the waiting room as the train pulled up to the platform. At that time there was a serious food shortage affecting Germans within the Russian Zone of Occupation. The train’s arrival saved us; otherwise we would have been pointed out to German security.
We reunited with the Jurgenses when we reached the platform. They had been sitting in another part of waiting room. We walked then ran along the train until we found a relatively empty passenger car. It was old and had a series of separate compartments accessible from either side. Mother and Roman’s father climbed up to one compartment and Roman and I into an adjoining one. Both compartments filled up immediately. We sat there and waited until finally, accompanied by shouts and steam whistles, our train pulled slowly out of the station. It was already dusk.
At some time around 8 p.m., after frequently stopping along the way, our train came to a halt just before Passewalk station, only 25 miles west of Szczecin. Thirty minutes later a train approached us then slowly came to a stop on the parallel track. At the same time the lights in our compartments were all switched off. Frightened voices were loudly whispering, ‘Ruski! Ruski! Quiet!’ There was absolute silence, then all hell broke loose. There were the sounds of men in heavy boots jumping from the other train, yelling and shouting in Russian, ‘Padavay chumadany’ (Give us the luggage); moaning and crying, terrified people jumped down from the train. Everyone in our compartment got up and tried to escape through the opposite side door. One woman who had been sitting next to the door grabbed her large suitcase and in a panic tried to get out while carrying it in front of her. The suitcase was longer than the width of the door and stopped her cold. She panicked and pushed harder. The passengers behind her were pushing, making it impossible for her to back off. Somehow Roman and I managed to twist the suitcase and the woman literally catapulted out. Everyone jumped out before the Russian soldiers were able to get to them. People were running and rolling down the embankment. We found mother and Mr Jurgens. Mother had had a close call when a Russian soldier grabbed her by the hand yelling, ‘Dievochka astain’sa’ (Girlie, you stay behind). She managed to break loose and jump from the compartment.
Most of the passengers who were in the conventional wagons with entrances at each end only were less fortunate. Some managed to escape by jumping out of the windows. Others were robbed and some women were molested. Ten minutes later, several short engine whistles called the Russians back to their train. Soon, the Russian train disappeared and we all boarded our train once again. It was well known that Russians soldiers returning home often indulged themselves in some final act of robbery and rape. Our group boarded the nearest carriage.
Two hours later, we arrived in Berlin and got off the train at Stettiner Bahnhoff in the Russian sector. By then it was midnight and we made our way to an address provided by the smuggler. We were to stay there and wait for the rest of the Jurgens family. After a ride on the U-Bahn we walked through dimly lit, empty streets framed by bombed-out buildings covered in snow. I looked around – it looked like Warsaw. I do not know what I really felt. Was I glad to see this destruction? ‘Well’, I thought, ‘they deserved it, didn’t they? After all, it was they who started it all.’ I guess I was immune to the sight of such destruction; I was just hungry and cold.
We finally arrived at our destination, an apartment building in a once well-to-do area of Berlin near the Tiergarten. We walked up to the third floor and rang the bell. The man who opened the door spoke Polish and showed us to a large room. It had once been elegant, but was now a dormitory furnished with eight cots. I woke up late that morning. It was Boxing Day, 26 December 1946. Over the course of the next few days it became clear that our apartment was a den of smuggling and black market operations. Mysterious and unsavoury characters and contraband goods came and went all day and night. After Christmas, Mr Jurgens and mother visited the office of a Polish organisation to learn if we could find help in getting out of the Russian Zone. They were told that no help could be given and that we would need to find our own way out of Berlin. Their advice was to attempt reaching Hannover in the British Zone. There were Polish displaced persons camps there in communication with Polish Army units on occupation duty. At that time Berlin had been divided into four sectors and there was
still unrestricted travel between them. The city was policed jointly; patrolling jeeps had military policeman from the American, English, Russian and French armies together with a German policeman. Nevertheless, Berlin was deep in the Russian Zone.
The rest of the Jurgens family arrived the following day. There were now seven of us. Our host had a connection with a smuggler who could lead us across the border into the British Zone. The appropriate arrangements were made. On the evening of 31 December all seven of us were on a train. We were travelling westward to a town a few miles from the border. There we would be met by a guide. The train stopped at several locations. After midnight we alighted at a small station. The few passengers who left the train with us dispersed quickly. Our train left and we were left standing all alone. The guide was nowhere to be seen. We waited about 15 minutes, not knowing what to do. We then noticed a man looking at us from time to time and walking slowly along the station wall. Mr Jurgens approached him and they conversed for a while. He turned out to be a guide too and was willing to take us over the border. Not having much choice, we trusted him and made a deal. The hike to the border would take more than three hours.
We walked in single file across farmlands, avoiding roads and skirting around villages. The night was very cold, the snow was deep and it was tough going. There was sufficient light from the moon reflecting off the snow. Three hours later it was nearly dawn. We had been walking along a patch of shrubs and small trees and stopped on reaching the edge. A hundred yards ahead was a field posted with signs. Visible, about a mile away, was a small town. The guide said, ‘This is the border, the town is in the British Zone. Russians patrol here every half hour. There should not be any for a while, so keep quiet and go now.’ We gave him his money and started to walk quickly across the field. As we approached the frontier warning signs we saw a Russian soldier lying in the snow a couple of feet away from us. He was snoring loudly; obviously he had already celebrated the New Year. We passed him and a few minutes later approached a sign saying, ‘Welcome to the British Zone of Occupation’. It was 1 January 1947.
29
British Zone of Occupation,
1 January–July 1947
We walked through the completely silent town. It was early morning on the new year. All the stores and restaurants were closed for the holiday. We did not come across a single person. The doors at the train station were open; we entered an empty waiting room. At least it was relatively warm. From the posted schedule we surmised that there should be a train to Hannover. Half an hour later the ticket window opened and a hungover man yawned as he busied himself behind the counter of the food stand. Soon we all had hot ersatz coffee and sandwiches. When the train arrived a few passengers boarded an almost empty train and several hours later we arrived in Hannover. At the station we found the address of ‘Kosciuszko’, a Polish displaced persons camp. It was a short ride by tram.
We registered, were assigned two rooms and were fed. The following day we met with the camp manager and explained that we just escaped from Poland. He confirmed that we should make our way to Meppen, to the headquarters of the 1st Polish Armoured Division, where there was a transit camp for recent escapees. He added that had we been here a few days earlier we could have gone directly to Meppen. The division’s 10th Dragoon Regiment had been brought to Hannover to clean up the criminal element from the large air shelter near the station, which British military police and German police could not cope with.
He told us about the weekly Polish Army transport that would take us to Meppen. A few days later, a Polish Parachute Brigade truck drove us and several other recent escapees to their headquarters in Osnabrück. There, after lunch in the military mess, another truck took us to the transit camp in Meppen.
The division headquarters was located in Meppen and the division occupied the nearby area of north-western Germany as part of the BAOR (British Army of the Rhine). The transit camp was situated in a large three-storey brick school building in a park on the edge of the old town. The market square and the historical town hall were only a couple of blocks away. Nearby in a local bier stube, Roman and I enjoyed our first German beer.
Polish military intelligence dwójka had its offices nearby. We were all interrogated individually. When my turn came, I told my story and showed my documents, telling the captain interrogating me that I had been in the old town during the Uprising. The surprised captain mentioned that Col. Ziemski Wachnowski, CO of defence of the old town, was visiting the divisional headquarters. The colonel was then advised of my presence. When he walked in twenty minutes later, I stood at attention and reported: ‘Colonel, sir! Runner Bohdan from Nałęcz Battalion reporting.’ He looked surprised. ‘Bohdan, what are you doing here?’ ‘I got out Colonel, sir!’ ‘Well done’. After a brief conversation, he left.
The colonel confirmed my service and Cross of Valour. He wrote, ‘I confirm participation in the Underground and participation in the defence of the old town during the Uprising by the Battalion Nałęcz Runner, whom I knew personally and remember from the Uprising.’ I was told that the British authorities clamped down on any further admission into the division. There was still a possibility of joining the Polish Armed Forces in Italy, where the Polish II Corps was on occupation duty. This large formation had close to 60,000 soldiers. At that time the very last transport was leaving in a week for Italy and we could join in. We decided to stay, under the illusion that we would be able to get into the US very quickly.
Even though I could not join the division, mother had been accepted into the ranks of the PWAS (Polish Women’s Auxiliary Service). The division had joined the Allied invasion in July of 1944 and seen action in Normandy, Belgium, Holland and in Germany. In April of 1945 it had liberated from Stalag Oberlangeni over 1,700 women soldier POWs who had participated in the Uprising. It was from their ranks that the PWAS had been formed. As some of the PWAS enlistees left due to marriage or other circumstances, their places were taken by whomever divisional military intelligence chose to help.
On 4 February my service was verified and I received an AK Commemorative Badge. The next day, I was issued a Polish Armed Forces, Ex-Prisoner of War (PWX) ID card. PWX status gave me the right to wear a uniform and to receive basic pay, cigarettes and food rations. I was told to go to Maczków to enrol in the Polish secondary school and then proceed to the Polish Military Centre 104 in Wezuwe-Meppen.
Maczków had until recently been Haren, a small town near Meppen. At the end of the war Polish soldiers had been billeted in German homes while the former residents were resettled to nearby towns and villages. Five thousand Poles released from forced labour, concentration and POW camps took their place. A local order of nuns and their convent was an exception to this directive. The II Canadian Corps, which had included our division, came up with this idea and Field Marshal Montgomery approved it. Haren now had Polish administration, Polish schools and was renamed Maczków in honour of division CO, Gen. Maczek.
Maczków was 11 miles from Meppen and easy to reach by ‘auto stop’, hitchhiking. Roman and I were admitted to the school. We then proceeded to the military centre, which had been a stalag and still housed a small number of Polish PWX. It was situated 8 miles to the west, close to the Dutch border. There was no traffic on the road we walked along leading to the centre and a flat, windswept, snow-covered peat bog stretched as far as the eye could see. The camp was a collection of old wooden barracks; it still had barbed wire strung around it. Roman and I were issued uniforms and a food ration allotment. The following morning we made our way back to Maczków, wearing our newly issued British battle dress uniform beneath our warm overcoats and carrying two blankets and a change of underwear. The student body at our new secondary school was made up of some of our division’s soldiers, ex-prisoners of war, and some family members.
About that time the Jurgens family had decided to move back to the American Zone of Occupation, where they had lived prior to returning to Poland. A couple of months later Roman left and I moved int
o a villa with four other Poles. Three of the men were in the Uprising and the fourth had been a displaced person. Time went by quickly during the next few months, there was a significant amount of schoolwork but we also had a lot of fun.
In the spring of 1947 the division began their re-deployment to England. Mother left in early May. Shortly thereafter, our secondary school announced that any serviceman of the division, or family member, who was scheduled to leave for England, could opt to take an accelerated exam and be dismissed from further classes. Though I was scheduled to go later, I took advantage of this offer. I passed all my subjects except for Latin, which I failed. I was issued a certificate of completion, excluding Latin, for the fourth year of gimnazium.
Just before mother left with the bulk of her battalion, she introduced me to Cpt. Halina Więckowska, CO of what remained of the battalion in Meppen. Her son Kazik had been in the Uprising and was a good friend of mine. I moved to Meppen and stayed there for the next two months. I had a great time, living in the same large building with six young women. My only duty was to stop by division headquarters each morning and pick up the mail.
The fact that I did not smoke was a great advantage since my cigarette ration proved to be worth a small fortune. As a PWX I received my pay in occupational marks (Allied military currency), which were used as common currency throughout Germany at that time. However, there were also BAFSV (British Armed Forces Special Vouchers) pegged to the British pound. The armed forces were paid with these vouchers and military stores accepted BAFSVs. My cigarettes were easily convertible into BAFSVs to say nothing of the occupational marks.
My Boyhood War Page 25