Open Writing

Only days before regaining our freedom I miraculously averted one last calamity of major proportions. One morning, towards the end of March Wacek, the notorious carrier of bad news, looking a little sheepish himself, delivered to me an official summons from the Gestapo. It requested that I report without delay to their local center of operations. No reasons were given.

I was too dumbfounded to think rationally, and, besides, there was really no time to pose or reflect. Expected to be on my way as soon as possible, I was automatically granted a leave of absence from work.

In everyone's mind visits to the Gestapo were synonymous with death. At best one might expect long imprisonment. On Wacek's suggestion I put together a small bundle of clothes. It was to be forwarded to me later on, should there be cause to do so.

I went through the motions of packing my belongings in a state of complete numbness, handed the bundle to Wacek, said good-bye to those still present in my Stube and set off.

I felt terribly cold when I reached the Gestapo building, and entered, devoid of any thought. My mouth felt dry.

On reaching the inner sanctum, I reported to the reception officer, conspicuous behind a small window. One peep at his black uniform, the one that had become a symbol of fear and loathing throughout the occupied Europe, made me shudder some more.

'I have received a summons,' I said, and handed him the paper.

'Come with me,' he said abruptly.

He ushered me into a well-lit office where two young officers greeted me. Surprisingly, they were cordial. They both raised their arms : 'Heil Hitler'.

'Heil Hitler,' I replied meekly.

'Please sit down.' They motioned me to a chair between them in a sort of semi-circle. They were both smiling in a friendly manner, as if trying to make me feel at ease. This made the situation even more unnerving for me.

Under the circumstances I found it extremely difficult to respond in kind. At first it seemed impossible just trying to control my shivering. Extreme panic was affecting my ability to think. As I sat there, weak and confused, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, one of the officers consult an open file on the desk behind him. I suspected he had discovered the truth! The concept did nothing to lift my spirits. I thought the end was near.

Amazingly, in my moment of desperation something inside my tired brain nudged me not to give up without a fight. After all, I had nothing to lose. With a superhuman effort I tried to size up the abhorrent situation. The words of one of my tormentors brought me out of my trance.

'Christa, I have here your file which details your career at K.D.F. Stadt. Having reviewed your file, we feel convinced you could be of great assistance to us.'

'It must be a trick,' I thought.

'You have an excellent command of languages.' The young officer who spoke sat back and appeared to relax even more. 'You could be of great help to us, you know. There are certain things that go on at the factory, that we would like to know about. You know: sometimes there are breaches of discipline. Sometimes there is subversion. We would like you to inform us of any such occurrences. Of course, you will be well rewarded for your trouble.'

I felt too distraught to fully grasp straightaway the meaning of what they were suggesting. When I finally did, I realized that I had to find a way to wriggle out of the situation without becoming trapped.

My mind went into a spin. I felt sick to my stomach, but I maintained a fixed smile throughout. How could I say 'no' without raising the wrath of the Gestapo: this was the problem. I had never before faced this kind of challenge.

The option I chose was to find a plausible reason for refusing such an 'honour', and I had to find one without delay. Obviously it had to sound genuine from the Gestapo's perspective. When at last I found my voice, my own words sounded to me more convincing than I really felt.

'Sir, I am terribly flattered by your suggestion that I could be of service,' I began. I kept my hands in my lap and fiddled with my handkerchief. I kept my head slightly lowered.

'You are placing a great deal of trust in me by offering me this opportunity to work for you. I must tell you that it is a great honour for you to ask me to do this.' I hesitated, then looked down to avoid their eyes .

'I have my shortcomings,' I said haltingly. @I know in my heart that I am not equal to the task you have chosen for me.' (How very true that was!) 'It is true that I have picked up a little German and French at work. But I am not an intelligent person. I was always considered dumb at school. I have had no proper education. I am just a poor Polish girl, and I cannot believe that I am up to the task.'

I watched carefully for their reaction. They both were looking at me, obviously sizing me up - looking to see if I was telling the truth.

'Besides, I do not relate well to other people. Most of my life I have kept very much to myself. I have made no friends in the Polish camp.' (This, at least, was accurate!) 'I would rather tell you the truth right away than disappoint you later on,' I added.

The truth was that I felt petrified. In that state I most likely did not sound too bright, unwittingly reinforcing the impression I desperately tried to convey to the officers - that of a stupid, inarticulate Pole.

They both looked at me for a while. Then one of them spoke, 'Perhaps you are right, Christa. Perhaps you are not the person for that mission.'

I took my first deep breath since entering their hateful office.

'You may go now. But you must never reveal anything about this conversation to anyone.'

They let me go. My relief knew no bounds. I felt deliriously happy and terribly drained, both at the same time, as I left behind the Gestapo Quarters. I could not really believe that any of this had really happened. I could not believe that at the end of the ordeal I remained not only alive, but relatively sane. Walking out of this nightmare into the sunshine had to be a miracle! Though wobbly on my feet, I returned to the camp to resume work, wholly elated.

Wacek walked up to me. 'What happened?' he asked.

'It was a private matter. I cannot discuss it,' I replied.

And that was the end of the matter. Wacek returned my bundle.

One can only comprehend the reason for this terrifying yet ridiculous interview in the light of the daily perils overtaking Germany in those final weeks of the war. With defeat staring them in the eyes the Nazis were clutching at straws, so to speak. How else could one explain the very notion that someone like me could or would secure their safety?

I resumed my normal duties at the canteen for only a short while after that. Slowly, as the Reich lay in ruins, the food supplies dried up. Our German bosses began to disappear from their posts at the factory. The discipline grew lax. We saw young schoolboys in Wehrmacht uniforms. They were all carrying rifles, but no one took any notice of them.

In the first half of April '45, work stopped altogether.

I said goodbye to Valia, the buxom Russian girl who helped in the canteen. We tentatively exchanged home addresses. Unfortunately, I was unable to contact her after the end of the war. According to hearsay, the Soviet authorities did not take kindly to any of their countrymen who 'betrayed' Mother Russia by working for the Germans during those fateful years.

Without anyone in charge we were suddenly left to our own devices in no man's land. Often assailed by bits of fallacious information, we felt lost and increasingly hungry. Rather than idle in the camps we resolved to put all our efforts into looking for food. To this end our boys joined the ingenious Russians in conducting raids on local farms.
Meanwhile, in my Stube at the Polish camp the concierge lamented the fact that she could no longer rely on rosters. She loudly objected to the interruption to her routines, bemoaning the absence of German discipline. The pathetic creature could no longer grasp the concept of freedom.

I had to spend the nights at the Polish camp, because there was nowhere else for me to sleep. In the mornings, however, I would trot off to the French camp to be reunited with my jobless friends. There we kept vigil and awaited new developments.

Sometimes to kill time and allay our craving for food we would articulate our favoured menus or, better still, etch them out in the rough surface of the trestle tables. On other occasions we made pitiful attempts at practising English without books, relying mostly on the few idiomatic expressions I had acquired in the Warsaw Ghetto.

At first we did not dare to venture into the town proper for fear of reprisals from the local population. While we languished in the camp, mere snippets of news reached us in the attending chaos. But the hopeless plight of the enemy emerged bit by bit. Following the Allies' unhindered advance towards Elbe, we learned of the withdrawal of the remnants of the German army from the north of the country. The Hanover region was liberated! At long last and, without a shadow of a doubt, we were rid of the hated Chleuh. ['Cheleuh' is a pejorative term the French used in reference to the Germans. It is the name of primitive Moroccan tribe.]

Finally, one morning a rumour spread like wildfire - the Americans, our friends, who until now had watched over us only from the sky, had actually materialized. They were on their way to K.D. F. Stadt.

With no Germans in sight and with no sign of any activity, everyone in the camp stayed on tenterhooks. I sat choked with excitement around the table with Marcel and others. We waited. Then in the early afternoon the inconceivable happened.

According to my calculations, it must have taken place just before the death of President Roosevelt, on the 12th April, 1945.

Two jeeps, each with a large beige star painted on the bonnet, pulled up outside the barracks. We had never seen jeeps before! Two American servicemen of high rank alighted briskly from each vehicle. We all ran out to greet them. We were completely wild! We jumped and screamed for joy and hugged madly.

As we re-emerged from the years of hell into the realm of enlightenment, an explosion of happiness and relief seemed to engulf us all. It was one of those rare moments of heavenly rapture, never to be forgotten. Our saviours were visibly moved by our reaction. In their attempt to communicate with the multitudes surrounding them, they made feeble attempts at exercising their schoolboy French.

Sobbing, tongue-tied, and drained of energy, I stood in the crowd. All of a sudden, one of the officers came up to me. Someone apparently told him that I spoke a little English. I barely understood what he was saying, but his kindly smile said it all.

He appeared to be in his fifties. His hair was greying at the temples. He looked at me with the eyes of a loving uncle - full of concern and goodwill. Deprived of any gesture of compassion for such a long time, I dissolved into tears. I wanted to say so much, but I could not find any words. Eventually, still crying a little, I managed to compose a sentence in fractured English. He looked horrified when I said: 'You should kill all the Germans in the world.'

He exclaimed, 'How can a young woman's heart be so filled with hatred?' his voice strained with emotion.

How could I possibly explain this to him? I just kept on crying. He opened up his arms and let me weep on his shoulder. He held me tight for a long while. Although I understood none of his soothing words, I did eventually calm down enough to shake hands and thank him for his concern. He made me promise to look to the future, kissed me on the cheek, wished me good fortune. And then he was gone.

Soon both jeeps drove off at high speed, leaving us to celebrate our final deliverance on our own.