This story is dedicated to my mother and to all refugees,
immigrants and especially their children originating from the lost
German native lands Silesia, Pommerania and East Prussia.
My special thanks are reserved for Sir Edward C. Eates, my
English friend, who advised me on the wording of the English
manuscript.
The narrative writer was born in the lost German “Far East” in the midst of war and confusion, not the best time to grow up. In his autobiography he takes us through difficult times and different places and shows us the kind of impediments that had to be mastered every day … unbelievable in our orderly times.
Bibliographical information of Deutsche Nationalbibliothek [the German National Library] Deutsche Nationalbibliothek [the German National Library] has registered this publication in the German National Bibliography. Detailed bibliographical data may be found online at www.dnb.de.
Copyright 2019 Jean-Christian de Mons
Coverdesign, Layout, produced and published by
BoD – Books on Demand GmbH, Norderstedt, Germany
ISBN: 978-3-7494-8968-8
Before reaching our final destination, a small village in Lower Saxony, a German province in Northwestern Germany, our trip began in January 1945 in chilling frost and deepest snow. But before I tell you all that happened then, let me begin with myself.
It was 1941 when I was launched into this cruel world. It happened to be in the commercial, administrative and cultural hub of the Prussian province Silesia and former member of the Hanseatic League, the city of Breslau (called Wroclaw now).
My elder brother Wolf could still remember my father, who was an army officer in the reserve and was killed in action as captain of the infantry at the Eastern front. I, however, appeared just three months after his death, a result of his last leave from duty in France. It seems to be strange that he was a lecturer at the philosophical and theological faculty of the university in Breslau and at the same time Lutheran pastor in a small community south of the city.
My mother belonged to one of the oldest Silesian clans of the landed aristocracy. After my father’s death she continued to handle the administrative functions of the parish until a friend of my father, the only remaining “shepherd” and catholic priest, took over this job. My mother could keep the official residence but stayed most of the time at the manor of her parents near Oels, east of Breslau.
What is it that a small boy aged just three years remembers of the earliest days of his conscious existence?… The light and friendly kids room with its white crib and my greatest treasure, a small mouth organ. One day it slipped from my hand and down on the top of the awning in front of the main entrance. I was unable to explain this “catastrophe” to anybody and was very sad, but finally I forgot it. Among my wooden toys was a beautiful fortified castle with painted pewter figures of knights and horses that I got from my grandfather. There was also my beloved sawdust-filled white rabbit and cuddle companion named “Hopsi” that was dragged around everywhere.
Our chicken pen was situated above the separate garage and could be reached by wooden stairs. Every morning my mother used to collect the still warm eggs from the nests.
In the wintertime my playmates and I enjoyed staying in the warm cowsheds and horse stables of our neighbors and watching the farmhands milking the cows and carrying out the manure, or we played in the hayloft above the stables.
On the even sandy place situated in front of our protestant church the older children were playing with glass marbles and skipping-ropes. Games like “Himmel und Erde” (Heaven and Earth) were also popular.
At the Eastern fringe of the village there was a railway line with barriers and a small station. Frequently endless cargo trains with military vehicles and other equipment were passing, pulled by noisy steam locomotives. My brother loved to place coins on the tracks and retrieve them after a heavy train had passed over and flattened them. He also used to lie down on the black ballast of the railway embankment and press his ears onto the tracks to listen if a train was approaching.
He loved to annoy me by stuffing caterpillars, bugs, earthworms and similar delicacies into my mouth and was extremely satisfied when I spat them out with disgust or swallowed them by mistake.
I, too, remember the many horse- and oxen-drawn carriages and the sledges in winter carrying cargo and loads of trunks.
My grandfather, where we used to live later when my mother became a widow, owned a black-and-white checkered German dog called “Thieras” that licked my face continuously when I was playing outside. Thieras was a perfect bodyguard and was ready to attack strangers who dared to come too close to me. Both Thieras and our small dachshund “Zumper” loved to chase together hares, pheasants and crows.
Hanging over the large oval table in the dining room was a huge brass candelabra. For many years a team of swallows used to build its nest there. When we were sitting at the table for a meal, these birds entered and left regularly and undisturbed through the upper part of one window that was kept open for them, to move unmolested and to feed their young ones. From time to time they dropped their “name card”. There was a huge brass plate positioned underneath to avoid spoiling the white table cover.
The last Christmas was celebrated in the vast drawing room in Briese Castle, which belonged to my grandfather’s family. It was adorned with large impressive paintings, and one of them reappeared recently in the Museum of Art in Los Angeles.
In the fireside were burning huge oak logs. The traditional Christmas tree, however, was too large and always erected in the spacious central hall underneath the belfry that adorned the impressive baroque building. The fir tree was so high that the old butler had to climb up the standing ladder to light or extinguish the wax candles. The lower branches were decorated with “Lebkuchen” (gingerbread), sweets and cookies for us children. On New Year’s morning we were permitted to strip the tree.
Suddenly a few days later army staff and civilians came swarming into the castle and we returned home to prepare the flight to the West. Meanwhile my grandmother prepared a trek with horse-drawn carriages and arranged a meeting point with my mother.
The parsonage resembled a beehive. Relatives and refugees from regions already in the hands of the Red Army had found a temporary shelter at our home. Even the chicken pen and the empty garage served as accommodation. The evacuation order of the NS authorities was given only when Breslau became the target of the Russian artillery. As a wise precaution our mother had already long before started to send parcels with garments by mail to the West, but unfortunately all the trouble had been in vain; everything was somehow lost and never arrived at its destination.
Our agreed-upon meeting with the trek failed, because the phone and telegraph service to the East did not work anymore. We had the incredible luck to join a farmer, who left with an old-fashioned wedding coach, the last means of transport in the village. He dropped us at a railway station further west that was still in operation. Mum was carrying a rucksack and a shoulder bag; my brother had a back sack too and a small suitcase, which contained some documents and valuables, but that was stolen while he was in a state of exhaustion and neglected vigilance at Dresden railway station later on. I was just carrying a shoulder bag and had to hold the leash of our dachshund Zumper. We caught an absolutely overcrowded passenger train, probably the last one. The doors were blocked by luggage and masses of people. A few decent fellow travelers pulled us inside one carriage through a window. We boys and our dog found place on top of the hand luggage of the racks. The smell of sweat, urine and tobacco fumes was overwhelming but it was warm contrary to the glacial temperatures outside. The trip lasting several days was often interrupted by interminable stops on sidetracks somewhere due to repair works or in order to let troop carriers and supply trains of the Wehrmacht (armed forces) pass by. At Bischofswerda, an important railway junction further west, were the first signs of bombings on railway installations and rolling stock. The tracks were destroyed or blocked, and repair works and clearing activities were underway. Our train could not pass at this time, so we left it and walked through the wreckage to the other side of the station, where another passenger train was just about to be assembled. In spite of the confusion, Red Cross staff were tending the injured, auxiliary staff was distributing “Ersatzkaffee” (substitute coffee) and hot soup from a field kitchen.
After additional interminable stops and impediments we finally reached Dresden at nighttime. As a precaution it was in complete darkness but had not suffered any bombings yet. It had been spared by the Allied bombing commands, because it did not have strategic value and had no industry of war importance. The concentrated and devastating bombing happened later, when we were already again on the move. As there happened to be no more connection further West for a couple of days, we were directed to a giant underground air-raid shelter near the central railway station, where we slept on straw but got heavy woolen army blankets for cover. The noise was incredible, especially from the crying kids and babies, but soon we fell into an exhausted leaden sleep. The following night we were extremely lucky to catch an unannounced train further on. As we could not find a way to get in and mum was already in despair, a compassionate member of the postal staff slipped us into the parcel and mailbox carriage of the train going to Leipzig. We were squeezed between the piled-up mail sacks bearing the symbols of an eagle and the swastika.
On this route we experienced our first attack of fighter planes on our train. When the train stopped, people left the carriages in panic and crept underneath the train or took shelter in ditches and behind trees. The locomotive was not hit and there was no serious damage. The planes did not return, so we continued our trip using diversions and waiting endlessly on side tracks of marshalling yards until we finally reached the burning and smoke-covered city of Leipzig, which had just been the target of an air raid. Again we found protection in an air-shelter crammed with people. This time we were unable to sleep because of the moans of the countless injured victims of the recent bomb attack and the crying of those who had given up hope.
After a long wait and listening to the rumors we were informed about a train leaving soon for Halle, an industrial city further in the northwestern direction. When we arrived there we were again confronted with fire, smoke and destruction. After we had been treated again with “Ersatzkaffee” and hot soup we were directed to the improvised Red Cross station for the delousing procedure a result of the impossible hygienic situation of the refugees and homeless at this time of the war. After having received our stamped documents that we were free of lice and contagious diseases we were released and wandered through the ruined city in search of the home of the brother of my grandmother (my father’s side), Professor “Ohm” W. S. It was a miracle: the house situated in the suburbs of Halle was unscathed and in perfect condition. Uncle Walther and his wife were of course very surprised to see us alive. There we embraced also “Machen” my grandmother, who had managed to leave her residence in Breslau much earlier together with her youngest daughter, and was just about to leave for the West. There we got news about the general situation and about the whereabouts of relatives who had managed to keep contact. We were very happy to hear that “Hitta”, our other grandmother, had finally reached her brother with her trek after many adventures.
The hospitable professor and his wife even started a fire in the hot water boiler, and thanks to the still-operating water supply in this suburb, we could enjoy the indescribable extravagance of an intensive bath with good soap and decent towels. Finally after such a long time the three of us and our pitiable dachshund, who had been absolutely famished, got something substantial to eat. After our laundry had been done and dried and a wonderful sleep in beds covered with white linen, we started for our last stage towards Magdeburg. This train was again a target for Allied fighter planes. This time, however, we had a lot of casualties and some passengers were killed by guns.
The corpses were left behind. The personal documents alone were collected for the authorities. The situation was not favorable for a burial on the spot as the ground was frozen hard as stone. From the train we could observe a bombing fleet flying in the direction of Berlin and returning later after having disposed of its deathly cargo, and some engaged in air battles and were hit, burning or trailing black smoke behind them, crashing and exploding.
It was in Magdeburg where we experienced something ghostly. Explanations were given to me later on like many others for facts and happenings that I did not yet understand being just a small kid. The city had just suffered an air raid where devilishly devised incendiary phosphor bombs had been dropped. We saw victims burning like torches running in panic through the rubble, turning about on the cobble stones and jumping into the round firefighting water storages trying to get rid of their burning garments. As soon as they got out of the water the fire started again. I will never forget the sweet smell of burned human flesh and the charred black remains of human beings scattered everywhere. In spite of the chaos the rail transport still worked somehow. From an improvised small station some way outside of the city we caught a local train and, unmolested by air attacks, reached Haldensleben, a small industrial city at the “Mittellandkanal” (Midland Canal).
It was pure luck! We were alive and not injured! Our suitcase with documents and valuables was gone, but our faithful companion Zumper the dachshund was still with us. Always, when the situation got critical, we put him into my brother’s rucksack and you could see just his head peering out. Our little bodyguard survived the following years. We walked the last 8 km to Bodendorf, the landholding of Count v.d. S. the elder brother of my grandmother (my mother’s side), who was born there.
When we arrived, Gisela, my mother’s unmarried younger sister, was busy killing a chicken in front of the kitchen house. She was so surprised that she dropped the axe onto the chopping block. The already decapitated chicken escaped, steered by reflexes, in the direction of the park, where it finally fell quivering onto the snow. She had abandoned all hope and considered us already lost.
My grandmother’s sister-in-law was a born von R., a relative of the famous fighter pilot of World War I, “The Red Baron”. She was nicknamed Auntie “Peppo” and was a rather authoritarian personality. She was unable to understand the situation of the uprooted refugees, who had lost everything until the moment, when she herself had to give up everything. We were considered parasites and were not invited to live in the spacy manor. We were staying in the garret of the kitchen house, and the long room was divided for us by a thick curtain fixed on a clothes line. The habitant on the other side was a bombed-out lady from Berlin. Mrs. Boettcher was a born Englishwoman and wife of a German general, who had been taken as a POW by the Americans. Their only son had been killed in action during the Allied invasion in France. She was one of the countless human beings we met during our odyssey whose life had been completely turned upside down by the war. She was a distinguished and cultured personality and always impeccable in her appearance even while working in the kitchen and in the garden. She and my grandmother got on very well with each other and they became lifelong friends.
Hitta my grandmother was of course living in the manor. She had a cozy little room in the attic that was heated by a small barrel-like furnace. There were continuous disputes about something or the other between Hitta and Peppo; they had extremely differing characters. Hitta’s brother, Uncle Pitz, joined the Nazi’s for a simple reason. They had introduced some very clever laws supporting agriculture and especially large land holdings that were perfect for rational production. Even shortly before surrender he was very active organizing a last resistance, erecting anti-tank barriers and traps and in training youngsters at the anti-tank weapons (bazookas). The radio news of the “hero’s death” of his beloved leader was a great shock for him. When you take into consideration that his cousin was the former German ambassador in Moscow until 41 and was hanged by the Nazis for being a member of the resistance group, which nearly managed to kill Hitler, such an attitude seems to be inconceivable.
Even in the provincial hamlet Bodendorf we were confronted continuously with the events of war. From time to time the fields and forests were hit by stray bombs dropped by planes in distress, wanting to get rid of their heavy and dangerous cargo. In the trees of the forests you found silvery “lametta” (strips of aluminum foil) dropped by the Allies to confuse the German defense radar equipment. At midnight we could observe from our attic window the faraway reflections in the sky of the burning cities.
It was amazing that the postal service was still working. We got mail from relatives in the West, but it took a long time to reach us.
One evening, after darkness had set in, a friend of Auntie Gisela from her schooldays slipped stealthily into the kitchen house. He was in the uniform of an infantry man and confided in us that he was a deserter. That signified death sentence when they got him. Gisela organized some civil garments for him and he stayed the whole following day hidden in the attic. In the night he left unseen as he had come. Much later we got the message that he had slipped through and had reached his Southern Bavarian destination unharmed.
Shortly before the end of the war deserters appeared more frequently at our place and asked for help. We sent them to a field barn where they could sleep unmolested in the hay. There was a rumor that German soldiers had shot the guards of an army depot when they refused to open the gates. According to another rumor, undernourished corpses with striped garments were found in a forest, victims of a death march of concentration camp inmates. People talked about raids and holdups by foreign workers from the bombed industries over whom the authorities had lost control.
Ignoring the uncertain situation my granduncle took care that the fields were cultivated properly. The mostly foreign farmhands and workers stayed on, because they were extremely frightened of the Russians and were happy that they had got a roof over their heads and their daily provision.
One day in May, when nature had already started to bloom, we were surprised by the unusual silence. There were no more detonations, no more antiaircraft guns to hear. The bombing fleets and German army vehicles and tanks had disappeared from the streets. Suddenly a single jeep with a white star on its bonnet approached from the thoroughfare with an officer and a black driver. It was the first time I was confronted by a man of dark skin. I was just playing in the front yard and was the first to welcome the foreign military guests, and directed them to the kitchen house. In the meantime a convoy with trucks, jeeps and light armored cars had appeared. They were ranged orderly in a row, guards were ordered to different positions and a search party was sent out.
Meanwhile, Uncle Pitz appeared on his riding horse, posing as “Herrenmensch” (masterful man) to negotiate with the commander of the unit. The result was that the count and his family could remain in the manor, but they had to retreat to the servants’ quarters in the attic and the chapel. The rest of the building was transformed into a commanding center of the US Army. A radio-communication truck took position in the center of the park and a couple of tents were erected. All rooms were searched and suspicious appearing documents and items as well as the hunting rifles were confiscated. A few other valuable items disappeared, but the greatest loss was a historical scimitar from a glass cabinet, which is probably hanging now at the wall of the living room of a war veteran somewhere in the United States … “spoils of war”. An ancestor, Field Marshal Matthias Count v.d. S., was appointed commander in chief of the Venetian land forces. On one occasion he was presented with the personal jewel-studded scimitar by his adversary the Osman Pasha and commander of a fleet in esteem for his strategic genius during a conflict on the island of Corfu at the beginning of the 18th century.
A lively activity now started around the estate. The cook took over the command in the kitchen and “victory cakes” were prepared on the day of armistice, and my brother and I were treated to a slice. I did have a very good understanding with the commander’s driver, Sergeant Charlie. He slipped chocolate and chewing gum into my pocket and taught me some English words and phrases.
One day the “Amis” (Americans) ordered some workers of the estate to dig a huge pit beside the kitchen house. Some trucks arrived later on and disposed of there the supply goods of a nearby dissolved German forces depot. Everything was sprinkled with petrol and fire was set to the whole lot. When the people had disappeared my brother and some other village boys retrieved some tinned food with the help of hooked poles. When everything was ashes the pit was filled up again.
Shortly after, our American occupation force left for Berlin.
After a few quiet days a small unit of French forces appeared and accepted the hospitality of the count just for a short period. This time, however, any problems of understanding did not exist; all grown-up members of the family spoke French. For the officers even some bottles of hidden French red wine were sacrificed during a frugal dinner.
When the representatives of “La Grande Nation” had left, the estate became a communication center of the British Forces. They remained for a longer time. Again a radio truck was parked in the middle of the park. That temporary regional headquarter became rather busy. There was a continuous coming and going. Opposite the small lake the pastures were flattened with rollers in order to prepare a landing strip. A small hut was erected and the landing strip was marked with a couple of heavy red-and-white-painted oil barrels at both sides. Later, three small, single-engine planes arrived and were parked beside the hut with the wind sleeve. The camouflaged planes were used for messenger services. One of the young pilots was on good terms with Mrs. B., the Englishwoman. In spite of the order for all Allied forces that forbade friendly contacts with the Germans he enjoyed conversing with us. Our mother grasped this opportunity to practice some English. In 1935 she was supposed to stay with English relatives in Hampstead/London to learn English; her marriage, however, made that impossible. There were countless interesting subjects to talk about. One fine summer day the pilot broke all rules and took me for a flight over the area. For me it was a unique and unforgettable event. Who would have guessed at this time that much later in life planes would be my working place? At last also the British Army got their moving order for Berlin.
After a couple of days, when displaced persons were roaming the area we heard one evening the strange song of a unit of the “Red Army” approaching with horse-drawn wagons from the east. The marching song sounded like “O lalapot … lalapot …!” The melody is still in my ears. They left the district road and took over the village and estate. Without discussion the whole family was thrown out of the manor: “You capitalist … out!” Uncle Pitz reacted immediately. He had heard gruesome stories about the Russians who had shot owners of large landed property on the spot and violated the women and often killed them afterward. That did not happen here. The Russian commander, who spoke some broken German, took care that law and order was maintained by his soldiers; he had to overlook, however, plundering and the consumption of alcohol, so as not to lose the loyalty of his Mongolian combat troops. Everything that had