EDR fleeing Poland

Poland

Having to flee again

In January, 1945, the order came for the evacuation of all Germans from the Warthegau district to Germany, to escape from the advancing Russian army. Our young Mennonite men (just the coming generation, for all the older ones had been sent to Siberia or Kazakhstan), were drafted into the army for a last-ditch effort in defense of Germany. Many teenagers lost their lives or were reported missing. We older ones had to flee by order of the local German military authorities. Otherwise we would have stayed, but now we were swept along.

On January 21, we were all together in Lindenbrueck. Gustav was lying peacefully and contentedly on his bed. Though weak on his feet, he still had a good appetite. We had received food and also shoes and clothing from the German supply depot. We felt happy and thankful after the difficult trek. It was not that long ago we had celebrated Christmas. As well as I could, I worked for the well being of my family and I had no idea what was ahead of us.

Frieda came in and told us that all Germans had to flee from the advancing Russian army and we, too, had to leave. The people from a neighboring village had already passed through in a long train. Gustav seemed numb and was not able to grasp this. Frieda and I packed, since we again had enough things to pack. “Should the heavy Bible come along, too? I asked my life partner. “Yes,” he said. “Then I will quickly open it once more and see what it has to say to us in our great predicament.” “My eyes fell on a sentence in Isaiah 26:20, “Go, my people, enter your rooms and shut the doors behind you, hide yourselves for a little while until his wrath has passed.” “Did you hear that?” I called. I was determined to stay, together with my old husband, who immediately agreed. After all, we were both old and in God’s care. We would risk it.

Our things were packed. So I helped Frieda to transport her bags on the little sled past the cemetery to the next street and on to the village inn. There was no means of transportation left for her and several other families. It was dusk and many horse-drawn wagons full of people and possessions, waiting to leave, stood along the street. When I came back to where the cemetery was, I saw someone being led by men and I recognized my husband. He said I should hurry so that we would get onto the same wagon. However, when I had put on my coat, quickly packed the bread bag and hurried out the whole row of wagons was gone. Our possessions were also gone, having been loaded on different wagons. The moon and stars were shining already. Snow was everywhere and it was cold.

Grandma wrote in Val’s notebook:

You drove away with the old Kettlers (Val’s foster parents in Poland) and Grandpa drove away with complete strangers. Aunt Frieda and Walter and Lily and I were left behind. Part of our baggage lay along the curb and Walter had to watch it. Meanwhile, by means of a hand-pulled sled we moved bedding and other things to the village inn, where others like us were still waiting. It was all very distressing, but there was no time to reflect upon it. The quiet cemetery that we had to pass each time, reminded us of peace and rest. Sad was the sobbing of our freezing boy who had to watch our bags.

As we were standing by the village inn, the last wagon came by, with a second wagon attached to it. A man from the local German militia was giving orders and called to him. I had to go with him, so that I could reach the group from Lindenbrueck. However, we went very slowly, because the horses were unshod and slipped and the wagon was heavily loaded. Then the driver detached the second wagon and left his family and friends at a farm. It took a white before he came back. He was a Pole and had no intention of trying to catch up with the Lindenbrueck group because of me.

When morning came, he brought me to an abandoned estate that was a camp for Poles. Fortunately, I had friends among them, neighbors for whom I had knit stockings and had helped in other ways. They were the Joseph Masishak family who had five children. I stayed close to them and they looked after me. All I had to do was not draw attention to myself.

I wrapped my shawl, which had belonged to my mother, more closely around me and leaned back among the baggage and slept until I was called. I had to come and I received supper: potatoes, pork roast and even a glass of wine. No, they were not angry with me, as they were with the other Germans, who six years before (when Germany had invaded Poland in 1939) had moved into their villages and had taken away their farms. The Poles had to work for them and to obey them. Now the Poles were the victors. Those who had treated their Polish workers harshly were now treated in the same way and had a very difficult time.

I was sleeping in a corner near the Maishaks, when a man came and led me a little further to an elderly German couple, the Buelows from Volhynia (Ukraine), who had stayed behind. The wife had stiff news, but the husband was useful to the Poles as a shoemaker and saddler and he knew how to adapt himself to his circumstances. They had only one room and a small kitchen, where I could sleep. Early next morning, as I was combing my hair, the husband went off to work and from their room I heard lamenting and praying that God would protect them. I quickly went and kneeled down beside Mrs. Buelow and two forlorn women fervently prayed for help in time of need.

Return to Lindenbrueck

We had just eaten, when a boy came to call me for the departure back to Lindenbrueck. I still had my potatoes there and I was glad to go back. Every wagon was decorated with garlands and the Polish flag. Many men walked alongside the wagons. They were all in a good mood. In Schwertburg, we stopped for a while and I saw from my wagon that Mrs. Maishak was speaking with the leader in front and was pointing in my direction. He came and asked, “German refugees from the Black Sea?” “Yes.” “You can pass. Don’t speak German and keep quiet,” he said. The Poles in the Warthegau district spoke German well, but they hated it. They did not even bother to respond when spoken to in German.

Our wagons drove along country roads, not the main highway. Some distance away we saw how one army was shooting at another. Dark clouds hovered over each one and you could see the fire flaring up. And I was their prisoner of war.

In Lindenbrueck, now called Djedeshevo, many Russian soldiers had moved in. Also some of the Germans who had fled were returning, because they had been overtaken by the Russian army and their horses confiscated. On one side was quiet grieving, on the other side, joy!

In the house where we had lived every lock was broken. The bedsteads were bare. A big unfamiliar feather-bed had been split open and feathers were scattered everywhere. So I was busy cleaning up. The water pails were gone. Someone had emptied a pail into the stove opening and a frozen path of ice ran across the kitchen floor. The table with Frieda’s dishes had been overturned and broken dishes lay on the floor.

I could not go to my neighbors, the Maishaks, for the night, because their house was filled with soldiers. It was getting dark and I went back into our house. No one was around just then. I quickly carried the feather bed up into the attic and also took Frieda’s two sheep-skins with me. The door to the attic was fitted with a big hook and I closed it. In the storage room, I made myself a bed and soon I was able to get warm under the sheep-skins with my coat on top. At night people would often rattle the door to the attic. I lay awake for hours, even though I had been traveling for several days.

In the morning, I did not dare go out. Suddenly, however, there was a loud crash and three Russian soldiers stormed up into my room. One demanded gold and searched through everything and took Gustav’s pocket knife.

“I will shoot every German today. I won’t let anyone live!” cried one soldier in Russian.

“It’s not my fault that such a war is going on,” I said, but he yelled at me again.

The two other soldiers tried to calm him, but he argued with them. Then through the window he noticed that other soldiers were carrying big round cheeses, which they had taken from the cellar of the cheese-diary next to us. That saved me. He ran to get a cheese. Also the soldiers had to leave town soon after that. An hour later, all the Russian soldiers had left. I did some cleaning up. I was even given a cheese by a couple of men who were getting some too. The cheese lasted me a long time. I think they had found it too moist.

I was alone and yet not completely alone, for my baptismal verse from Isaiah comforted me again and again. But I had to find a livelihood. I had fuel in the attic: five sacks of briquettes and a pile of wood. Potatoes were stored in the cellar of the neighboring parsonage. I had helped to dig them up and my portion lay there too because we had no cellar in which to store them. Therefore I had reason to go there now.

The parsonage door stood open and people had rummaged through everything. Three altar cloths, a golden crucifix, communion dishes and wafers lay on the floor, also a Bible and hymnbook. Snow had blown in. I picked everything up and was folding the altar cloths when three Polish men caught me by surprise. They knew me, and when I said that I wanted to keep these things safe for their church, they allowed me to do so. They let me take whatever food staples I could find in the kitchen.

In the front room of the parsonage hung a Red Cross first-aid kit. This too I took with me for safe-keeping. I hung it up in my room and leaned the crucifix, with a veil over it, on a chair in a corner. From the first-aid kit of Mrs. Hochhauser, the pastor’s wife, who had been a Red Cross nurse, I took the red and white armband and the apron. I laid out my very good midwifery certificate, and the old Red Cross nurse was ready for action. There were bandages and ointments and other medical supplies in the kit. I felt confident and I wanted the people to know me as one desiring to serve them. My instinct for self-preservation came to the fore.

But where were Val and Kettlers? Where was Gustav? What had happened to Frieda? I heard that trains had been bombed, including some with refugees from our area. Because of a lack of horses, Frieda and others had to wait at the train station in the hope of getting on a train. “All dead,” said my Polish neighbors. If it should come to that, then I would have no more tears left to weep, for my pain and the misery of my loved ones was too great for lamenting or weeping. Now, just fend for yourself and pray and work.

A shivering man with wet footgear appeared and looked around impatiently. Quickly I gave him a basin of hot water for a footbath and laid our dry rags for his feet. After he had drunk some hot tea and eaten, he was in a good mood. He was just the forerunner. A whole troop of Polish border guards were on their way into town. My stove was in constant use, and late into the night I gave out hot water freely, until only one sack of briquettes was left and much of the wood was gone. It was a strange experience. Someone came again in the morning. This time it was the Polish servant of the Tiefenbachs, who was now their master, and he handed me a generous piece of meat. He told me that he had helped Gustav onto a wagon belonging to a family named Lorenz, when they were leaving. A girl, also Tiefenbacs’ former maid, brought me an old spinning wheel and sheep’s wool for a jacket. She later brought me food and spoke kindly to me. At night I tied the door with a rope, because the locks had been broken.

Val comes back

Two weeks later Val walked in the door. She had been with Mrs. Kettler in another village until Val’s frozen toes had healed. They had been frozen when she and Mrs. Kettler had been overtaken by the Russian army and, so as not to get run over by the tanks, Mr. Kettler had swerved to the side and the wagon had capsized into the ditch full of snow. Much was lost, including the good horses. All this was more than the man could take and he walked away and never came back. Perhaps he was shot by the guards. He had experienced the battle of Verdun in France in the First World War and was now old. He told us about it once. A Polish man had later picked up Mrs. Kettler and Val. Now I was not alone anymore but had my little granddaughter with me.

We lived in our little apartment until February 18, 1945, when a Polish family moved into the house. We had to go to the home for the destitute, which was full. Ida Schott, a German lady, who had had a room there for quite a while, had to take us in against her will. She resisted angrily and the village mayor, who was nearby, had to be called before she let us in. It was an unreasonable demand, for her whole room was occupied by the stove and her possessions. She herself was tiny and had bad nerves. She was bitter because of the difficult experiences in her life. Later, she told me about them, for eventually she learned to love us and would have liked to keep us, if she herself had not been dispossessed and forced to go to the internment camp.

Sometimes when her nervousness became too much for her, she would drive us both outside. Then we would  sit for hours in a wrecked car in the yard and watch the world go by. Val learned the multiplication table of I recited poems, which she enjoyed very much. Soon she knew several of them from memory.

Gustav returns

Since I am writing this for our children, who may be reading this one day, they will appreciate hearing about their father’s experiences when we had to flee. He spent the first night in a barn in Eichenbruech, about 30 km from Lindenbruech. He did not continue on, because he expected me to come on a later wagon. So he sat down on a bench at the side of the road and observed the wagons going by, to see if he could recognize me on any of them. Finally, when evening came, two policemen spoke to him and when they saw that his feet were frozen, they led him to the hospital.

His toes healed and after ten days he was discharged. He was taken to a German woman named Mrs. Frey, who was still living with her daughter and grandchildren in a couple of rooms in her own house. For a whole month, this kind old lady fetched him warm soup and bread from the Red Cross every day, spoke kindly to him and gave him a cane. With gratitude, I think of her and also of a Red Cross nurse named Anna, who bought him a ticket on a military train, helped him to a good seat and spoke comforting words, saying that he would surely find me at home in Lindenbrueck. This is exactly what happened. Thus after nine weeks he arrived, walking slowly with two canes. He was so glad to have found us.

Gustav returned on Good Friday, April 5, 1945 and it was impossible for Ida to take him too. A little further away near the Catholic cemetery stood an empty guard-house, without windows but with shutters that could be closed. With the mayor’s permission we led Gustav there. I stuffed a sack with straw and made a bed for him on a bedstead that still belonged to us. I covered up the windows with the large portraits of my parents, which made the little house homey. That was on Good Friday, and when I had finished moving our things and the fuel, and had a little stove installed on which I could cook, Easter was over.

Now he had peace and quiet, but not me! In ten weeks he had not changed his clothes. That is how helpless he had become without his wife. The seams of his clothes were full of lice. It was horrible. I was able to get him clean with kerosene, but it took me three days. Where could I get underwear and clothes for him? There was only one way, a very humbling one. I walked along a row of houses and asked. The Polish women listened to me and gave me clothes until I had enough. I was so thankful, but I found it very difficult to stand there as a beggar. The church organist gave me a pair of pants and a jacket, because I was the woman who had saved the communion utensils and altar cloths for them. I had saved these things from the Protestant parsonage for their Catholic church. Since their own church building had been burned down by the Germans during the war, they were now using the Protestant church building.

However, the hatred for the Germans was very evident. Boys often threw stones against our door on their way to school. Once a couple of boys walked right in, but were probably startled to find a weak old man. Once we were outside again I said to them in a friendly way, that they should not do that again. Some of them were so full of hate they stamped their feet and yelled “German!”

Val stayed with Grandpa while I worked for Maishaks. In return, they generously gave us food that I brought home at night. Gustav’s appetite was still good, but he could not understand why I could not spend more time with him, and in the morning he would constantly ask me to do this or that for him, when it was high time for me to go. Finally I just had to disregard his wishes and leave for work. I was now a domestic helper and I had to help in the house and farm and garden. Later I spun wool.

Another move

Mrs. Maishak brought news home from her trips, and I knew that in Germany large cities were being bombed. She told of Hitler’s marriage to Eva Braun and then of their tragic end. One day they warned me that a man from the burnt-out city of Danzig, who was especially hostile to Germans, would be visiting them and I, as a German, should be careful. He arrived in a disheveled and drunken state. I was busy in the kitchen. As soon as he saw me, he came directly toward me and put his head on my shoulder and wept and poured out his grief to the “babushka.” He thought I was an old Polish grandma. They offered him refreshments and I could retire.

We were in the little guard house for only a couple of weeks. A refugee from Romania and I were busy getting potatoes ready for planting in Maishak’s garden, when suddenly Mrs. Maishak came excitedly and said that we should get ready quickly because a policeman had come to take us to the internment camp.

The policeman was riding a bicycle and we were on foot. We were supposed to walk faster. As I hurried through the gate, I fell. The rude fellow had hit me with his bicycle. Both knees were burning, but I did not even pay attention to that. This was no time to be sensitive. When we arrived, all the German refugees were already there, among them Gustav and Val. At least the police had given him a ride.

We helped him up the steps. We found all the rooms to be occupied, so we took a corner under the roof where onion skins were still lying around. Here there was fresh air. When the police left for supper, I hurried to our little guard house and packed a sack full of necessities. When I was walking back with the full sack, I had to pass by a group of men who were looking in my direction. Instinctively, I greeted them in Polish. They let me pass and so at least I had a pillow and blanket for Gustav.

The night was distressing. We heard shots over the house to scare us. The air inside was stuffy and some found it hard to breathe. Old Mrs. Beutler had an asthma attack. Old Mr. Wuerz kept falling and Gustav, too, was restless. His cry of “Almighty God, have mercy!!” was heard by others. They too had that cry in their hearts.

In the morning, everyone was registered and assigned work by the Poles. As I was over 70, I could stay behind and so I went to the Maishaks.

It was so good that young Maria Heidebrecht from Paulsheim, freed from work because of illness, was lying there. She spent time with Val, combed her hair, and helped look after her, and also kept an eye on Gustav’s needs, so that Val was not all alone with her sick grandpa.

Maria, together with her mother, aunt and cousin, had to go back to Russia, when that strict order came. I, too, had packed, but because of Gustav we stayed behind, for he was already very sick. Mornings and evenings I cared for him. Since my husband was so helpless, the mayor kindly permitted us to stay. Val was almost taken away from me, but the mayor let her stay. Also there was no transportation available, so they left us alone. Thus a restless, troubled day passed, except that we were now the only ones left of the group of Mennonite refugees from Russia. This happened in May 1945.

Gustav’s last move

We were taken to another house that stood on the outskirts of town on the road to Sassenfeld. It was a house in which six years before the dispossessed Pole had lived, and now the dispossessed Germans lived there. There were grandmothers with grandchildren, whose mothers had to work.

Since Gustav had a foul-smelling ulcer under his left shoulder blade, we were given a far corner in the kitchen. Next time it rained we found that our corner remained dry, while those in the other rooms were driven out of their beds by the rain coming through the roof. As a result, the women took their children to their places of work, where they had to sleep in the barn or hayloft, because it had been forbidden to take them into their employer’s homes.

We were the only ones left in the house. Now I stayed with Gustav and Val all the time. But how should we get food to eat? In the kitchen were steps leading down to the cellar where there were still many potatoes that belonged to the owner of the house. He said that we could help ourselves if I would take the sprouts off a certain amount each day for the pigs. I did this gladly.

There was a stove. A round iron lid served as a frying pan. I had a few pieces of sheep-suet left over from Frieda’s supply and there were beautiful big potatoes in the cellar. I could buy bread in the bakery because Gustav happened to be given 40 sloti by some policemen, who were counting money. I also went to buy milk for him from the Poles, but they just gave it to me because he was sick. Mashed potatoes were our daily fare, but towards the end Gustav drank only sour milk.

There was also a pump near the house to supply us with water. We started to feel at home in the abandoned little house, where it was quiet and peaceful. We placed ourselves in the care and protection of our heavenly Father.

Evangeline’s comment about the portraits of her parents.

We had fastened the big portraits of my parents inside the trunk lid and brought them as far as Poland. We had once picked them up out of a pile of papers in Klassens’ big house, after thieves had ransacked it in 1922. My husband, Gustav, was rummaging through it with his cane when suddenly father’s face appeared. The two portraits were intact, but uncle Heinrich Klassen’s hung outside on a tree. One eye had been pierced through and underneath was written, “A great bandit.”

We were allowed to keep the pictures because my sister was emigrating to Germany.

After Gustav’s burial, when I was spinning wool for the Poles, I walked one Sunday to the meadow where our little guard-house stood empty. As I went a little further to the garbage pit, I noticed at one end a blooming potato bush and part of my father’s face, with one eye showing. So this is where my pictures and books, now spoiled and mildewed, ended up. They had already taken all the things we had received from the Germans. Can you imagine what it felt like to be a poor prisoner of war?