Open Writing

Seeing that the long years of my captivity came to an end in the fragrant spring weather of April 1945, I have always regarded this wondrous month as a symbol of Renewal. From then on every passing day brought me closer to the ultimate goal of leaving forever the cursed country where I endured so much hurt and humiliation. Ahead of me, a new life in a free world lay waiting.

Six years hence the Nazis had callously substituted my human rights to autonomy by a protracted period of enforced bondage. They must have done an excellent job because now that I was about to reclaim it the very concept baffled me. Indeed, even an imaginary glimpse into the kind of future that offered equal rights to every human being made me feel dizzy.

Luckily I was not given much time for moping. Gradually our attention turned towards preparations for the great exodus.

With Germany in ruins, its railway system lay in tatters, leaving no one in charge. We could only make tentative evacuation plans. The Americans envisaged the repatriation of about 2500 French nationals from K.D.F. Stadt for early May. However, we could not anticipate neither the precise date of our departure nor the likely length of the journey. The situation clearly called for big initiatives on our part.

For a start we needed to store as many non-perishable victuals as possible. Thereafter we had to unearth some respectable but practical clothes for our victorious trip to Paris - no small matter! Brimming with unbridled enthusiasm, we set up Operation Acquisition.

The boys made daily rounds of the local farms and the country cooperatives in search of useful groceries. Within a week they had collected sacks of sugar, flour, onions, potatoes, and the like. As meat was virtually unobtainable, some former captives who were skilled in the butchering trade confiscated a few live piglets. They planned to roast them on the spit during the journey. Our own larder included tinned American food as well as some discarded German Wehrmacht iron rations.

I grappled with the problem of what to wear for this unpredictable expedition. I thought it unlikely that any of us would have privacy during the journey. Accordingly, I cast aside my well-worn working skirt, in favour of a pair of Marcel's JOFTA navy-blue trousers. Considering that I was altogether unaccustomed to wearing trousers, the transformation made me feel particularly awkward. Furthermore, I had to practise doing up the belt very tightly at the waist and tucking the calves into my boots to make the trousers fit my considerably smaller frame.

Next came the moment of lachrymose farewells and the exchange of addresses with our mates. We would forever share so many memories - some ludicrous, some gruesome, some just heartbreaking. Our mutual generosity of spirit left its mark on our lives.

Jojo, who was about to leave for home with his contingent of French prisoners of war, was the first to come to say goodbye. He told me that he knew for certain that his wife had run off with another man. In his despair he could not face returning to their empty flat before discovering the whole truth. For the meantime, he offered me his place in Paris for use as my temporary quarters. He left me his prewar visiting card with his name and address. (I have kept it all these years.) He said I could collect the key from the concierge. Because of the tragic circumstances in which he made the offer, I felt overcome by his gesture.

He did not allow me to thank him. He assured me instead how happy this arrangement would make him. I was very shaken and unable to say anything meaningful after that. We shook hands, embraced, and exchanged the customary 'a bientot.'

Henia chose to be repatriated to Poland because she had left her little girl at a convent there. We said tearful good-byes. She did not tell us exactly where we could find her. Aware of her leftist leanings, I was not surprised. I never heard from her again.

In the post-war era Vera, Henia's Czech off-sider at the pharmacy, corresponded with me in German for several years. She lived in Karlovy Vary (known to us as Karlsbad - a spa where before the war my parents used to go for cures).

On my final visit to the hotel I exchanged addresses with both Giesela and Thea. They had always been very decent to me. I subsequently learned that Giesela had become pregnant to her Belgian boyfriend, but sadly, consistent with the general pattern, he had abandoned her.

At last in the last week of April our American saviours advised us that our repatriation train was due at any time. We were to watch out for it by the railway track in the vicinity of our former camps. There was a downside however; to be eligible for the trip everyone had to line up in the open air and be sprayed in secret places with a pungent disinfectant powder. It smelled just like the creosote used in the Warsaw Ghetto during the typhus epidemics.

Within hours of the announcement of our imminent departure crowds of very excited, cheering former foreign workers, all with their gear and livestock, began to gather at the assembly point. They continued pouring out of the camps until the vast area between the barracks and the railway track was jam-packed. Without losing sight of their precious belongings, they eventually all settled down in clusters on the bare ground. The unseemly invasion converted our 'departure lounge' into a gigantic beehive.

Once the comings and goings ceased and a relative calm was restored, we came to realize that the long vigil had only just begun. We had no idea whatever when the illusive train would actually arrive. For a while we let the peace and majesty of our first dusk by the railway track placate us. But, under the circumstances, the initial enthusiasm was wearing off.

In the falling darkness the overall mood of the waiting masses began to change. Sitting on the cold ground with no train in sight the prospective travellers grew restless, hungry, and cold. Ultimately, people commenced to dip into the provisions destined for the journey. Some, disillusioned, returned to the barracks for the night; others, buried under their loot of army blankets, elected to brave the bitter cold under the stars.

The exposure compelled our boys to seek new solutions. They came up with the outrageous idea of pulling down the barracks. The wooden walls and contents, they reasoned, would provide fuel, indispensable for keeping us warm. The following morning several Frenchmen embarked upon a novel task. Armed with the oddest assortment of tools, they completely dismembered many of the detested wooden abominations. The progressive burning down of our former abode throughout the following two nights enabled our multitudes to luxuriate around the blazing bonfires. With every cupboard, table, and bunk consumed by the flames, loud cheers arose from the ecstatic participants.

The exercise was satisfying in every way. We felt warm and cosy again. Moreover, the hot coals provided inspiration to the cooking enthusiasts while the idle majority kept singing and dancing. In the glow a carnival atmosphere reigned supreme. We carried on like some primitive tribes performing their ancient rites. Sleeping became superfluous.