Ordinary Woman, Extraordinary Life
The Life of Irma Pallas
By Irma Pallas
Copyright© 2012 by Irma Pallas. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
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ISBN: 978-0-9851813-0-7
Logan Square Press
Albuquerque, New Mexico
USA
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Part One - Overcoming Hardship
Chapter 1 - War in the Eyes of a Child
Chapter 2 – Worclaw, Part One – Relocation
Chapter 3 - Wrocław, Part Two – In Memory of my Teacher Pani Janina
Chapter 4 - Search for a Better life – The Wonderland Germany
Chapter 5 - The Dearest Person in My Life - Grandma
Chapter 6 - Love and Sorrow for a Mother
Chapter 7 - The Father I Never Knew
Chapter 8 - Relationship – Touching Moment
Part Two - The Rough Road Ahead
Chapter 9 - Hamburg – My Second Home
Chapter 10 - Search for a Father Replacement
Chapter 11 - Romance with a Showoff Person
Chapter 12 - Brazilian Connection
Chapter 13 - Return to the Roots in 1969
Chapter 14 - The Moscow Love Story
Chapter 15- Two Months in Leningrad, Today St. Petersburg
Chapter 16 - Assignment in Poland Part One
Chapter 17 - Assignment in Poland Part Two –The Spy Affair
Chapter 18 - Assignment in Poland Part Three – My Friend Bozena
Part Three - Start of a Better and Happier Life
Chapter 19 - Chicago Part One– You must Love the City
Chapter 20 - Chicago Part Two – Stanley Pisz
Chapter 21 - People to be Remembered
Chapter 22 - Blind Date – Meet the Con man
Chapter 23 - Rudi – Successful Marriage
Chapter 24 - Coco – In Memory of a Companion
Chapter 25 - Family Unifications
Chapter 26 - Miracle – A New Family Found in 2004
Chapter 27 - First Anniversary with the Children in 2005
Chapter 28 - Europe Trip with the Children in 2006
Chapter 29 - The Wedding and First Grandchild
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Editor’s Note
It seems insulting to call someone “ordinary.”
After all, we are all different and unique and have had our own battles with life and fascinating stories to tell. All our lives are filled with everything from trauma, to joy, tragedy, boredom, failures, bad choices, lousy marriages, unfulfilled dreams, bad jobs, optimism, laughter, love and triumph.
Most of us don’t get a chance to tell those stories because we’re not part of this celebrity-obsessed culture in which we live. We have jobs to go to every day, bills to pay and families to raise, and camera crews never beat down our doors to sensationalize and breathlessly report on our addictions, divorces, failures and successes.
Movie stars, politicians and athletes get all the attention, and all we’re left with is reading or watching about how another multimillionaire overcame yet another series of self-inflicted wounds.
It is in those “ordinary” lives, though, that life is waged every single day and where true inspiration comes from. Every day our fellow “ordinary” neighbors, co-workers and colleagues are battling life, overcoming adversity and succeeding. Their successes—finding a lost relative, reconnecting with a friend or having the courage to get out of a bad marriage—are small and insignificant to the celebrity-obsessed media. But to those “ordinary” people, those successes are monumental.
Irma Pallas isn’t famous. She has worked as a tour guide in Europe and the old Soviet Union, as an employee for the West German Embassy in Warsaw, at the Consulate General in Chicago and for machine tool companies in the U.S. and Germany.
Her life, though, has been interesting. She was born in 1941 in a part of Poland that had been conquered by the Nazis. Her father, part of the German security forces, was killed on the Eastern Front.
She watched the Soviet Army roll over the Nazis and reconquer Poland. At the end of the war, her family was “stateless,” neither Polish nor German. Her mother and grandparents struggled to reunite with family members in West Germany after the war, which they did in 1955.
From there, Irma’s life became a wild rollercoaster ride with bad marriages and relationships, depression, joy, love, spies, an estrangement from her mother and much more. At one point, Irma, depressed, made the decision to end up in the street. She never did it, as life intervened and sent her on a different course. Her story is filled with those “ordinary” heartbreaks: guys who are jerks, lost dogs and a mother searching the bars of Hamburg for her drug-addict son while carrying a shopping bag with a pair of clean underwear for him.
There’s intrigue. The Polish Secret Service followed Irma wherever she went in Warsaw, and assisted her when locals purposely caused car crashes in an attempt to get money from westerners.
There’s humor, like the Brit she once dated who used Super Glue to keep his bad teeth attached to his gums.
And there’s kindness—teachers who made sure the young girl completed her studies and found the strength to carry on in the face of adversity; friends who showed up at her apartment doors to lend their ears when she was depressed and take her to dinners and the opera when she was struggling financially; Polish security officers who, at the Height of the Cold War, walked an employee of the West German government to her apartment and surveyed the area for lurking intruders; and a Russian gentleman who, seeing a young woman walking alone in a Leningrad park at 2 a.m., escorted her safely to her hotel and kissed her hand in departure as a gentlemanly sign of respect.
In 1974 Irma came to the U.S. as an employee of the West German Consulate, and, for the most part, stayed. She has seen a good portion of the world in her travels and jobs.
Irma’s story is like all of ours. She has had good and bad times, and at seventy-years-old, is still standing. Actually, she’s doing more than that; she’s celebrating and enjoying life. She has gotten through the tough times and has learned that real happiness comes from the “ordinary” things—taking a walk with her husband Rudi, picking up the phone and calling a friend, sending someone a card and taking vacations with Rudi’s children and their spouses.
Irma knows that it’s those ordinary pleasures that make for an extraordinary life.
Dennis Domrzalski
Logan Square Press
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Introduction
Writing an autobiography has often meant writing down the facts of one’s life without recording any feelings. When I started to write my story, I learned to understand how to portray people and events, as well as my thoughts and responses to all those people and events.
Quite often I heard the advice, “Write what you know. Actual events from your past can become the key to developing writing skills.” It was easier said than done. I had to learn to be confident of my own identity and ability to explain where I had lived and what I had lived for.
Learning writing skills and techniques did not come easy. I was missing “helpers” who were willing to explain and develop my awareness about language structure instead of criticizing. I speak several languages, and English is not my first. I had several drafts started, and only in the last one did I realize how much attention must be paid to spelling, structure and punctuation.
I started the autobiography more than five years ago. Several times it ended up in my desk drawer due to a lack of time or the drive to continue. But when vivid memories came to me, I rushed to my desk and made notes so I would not miss or forget them. Suddenly, I discovered that my life was filled with joy, sadness, hardship, and the worst of all, loneliness. I realized that I missed my childhood which I spent in Salesia, Poland; my friends, my teacher, and even the very simple life after the World War II.
We lived behind the Iron Curtain, communicated only with relatives in the West, but had no idea what life would be in West Germany. My family and I had difficulties in adjusting to the lifestyle and different mentality. I also finally realized how I loved the country I came from and how I never forgot my heritage. I know now that I had friends for life who are still there and where I am welcome any time.
Through the process of writing my story I found dear friends and helpers who helped and encouraged me to continue with this autobiography, and to whom I address my gratitude.
Finally, I often thought, “Why would anyone want to read about me, Irma Pallas? I’m not famous and have never aspired to fame or celebrity. I’m just an ordinary human being.”
Then I realized that most everybody on this planet is like me. Ninety-nine percent of us aren’t famous. So many of us have had bad marriages, lousy role models, a lack of emotional support and bad times. We want to shed the depression and live with joy and happiness. I managed through my bad times and have found love, laughter and joy in life. I know now that I survived because, along the way, I found wonderful and “ordinary” people who cared enough to help another human being.
I hope that my story will inspire other “ordinary” people who have had bad times and who are looking for encouragement to master their lives in good and bad times.
With joy, hope, love and gratitude,
Irma Pallas
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Word from the Author
I decided to become an American citizen, not because I needed the immigration papers, but because of the feeling that this country would be my second homeland. I had been here for ten years, met many people, made friends, and most of all, felt comfortable and secure. It was a great moment for me when I first recited the Pledge of Allegiance and later received the Certificate of Citizenship. That happened in October 1985. At that time, I knew for certain that I would not return to West Germany where my family lived and still lives.
The city of Chicago contributed a lot to my decision. I felt welcomed there. During the stage of settling down, I had contact with people from several ethnic groups, particularly with Polish people. I got acquainted with people who came to this country either after World War II, or later when the political and economic situation in the home country forced them to immigrate, legally or illegally, to find a job to support their families back home.
Polish workmanship was known as one of the best in America, as well as in Western Europe. Poles are skillful, have a positive attitude and are eager to succeed. Unfortunately, often they were misjudged and denigrated. They became the object of stupid jokes.
Since leaving Poland in 1955, I have visited the country on several occasions. On each visit, I saw improvements, especially in big cities, but also in the outskirts as well as in smaller towns.
With the political changes in Poland, people’s ambitions rose and they were willing to work on rebuilding historical sites and cleaning up old, dirty and crumbling facades. It was an eye opener when I visited Poland in May 2011. I was stunned at how much everything had changed. It was exciting to be there, and it felt good. I was home, a better one than so many years before. The improvements have opened the door to the business world and visitors from all over the world.
I took the chance to visit friends I had not seen for many years. While they used to struggle in the older times, I was happy to see them doing well. They had bought condominiums or houses, and had secured a comfortable life. But nothing came to them easily. They worked hard, and now that they are partially retired, they have the benefits of enjoying themselves and travelling without the restrictions that were imposed by the Communists.
We all aged with the years, but got wiser in many things. We did not forget each other over the years, and are determined to cherish our friendship no matter how far away we are from each other.
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In Memory and Dedication
This biography is dedicated to several people some of whom are not with us today but who helped me overcome obstacles: Robert Beck, Josef Strasberger, Horst Cohn, and to my dear friends with whom I cherish a deep and wonderful friendship: Beatrice Stillman, Bozena Paprocka, Teresa Staron-Lamowska and Marilyn Leben
Last but not least, I would like to thank my aunt, Hanna Preissner, in Kiel, Germany, who welcomed me into her house when I was fifteen. She treated me as if I was her own daughter. There I found warmth, love and sincerity.
Thank you to all.
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Part One
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Chapter 1
I was not quite four years old when World War II began to reach its end phase with the worst and most horrible effects. The following is what I learned as the war came to an end.
The Russian Army, together with Polish troops, forced the German occupiers back toward the west, while rolling though the occupied territories along the way. One of those territories was Salesia, the eastern part of the Third Reich. Today it is the western part of Poland.
Most of the Russian soldiers were very young and inexperienced. They originated from the poorest families and had little education. For the first time in their lives, they came in contact with a more cultured world, and it was very overwhelming to them. They invaded homes and robbed and mistreated families. The first things that caught their eyes were watches. Their arms were covered with ladies’ and men’s watches. My mother gave them an alarm clock in exchange for a can of sausages. Where they got the sausages from we did not know. Alcohol was the next item they looked for. They got drunk, danced on tables, and other costly furniture. They even dressed in women’s nightgowns and marched through the streets and sang loud Russian songs.
Polish soldiers also invaded homes and behaved very brutally. For example, while mother was feeding us one day, one of the soldiers lifted his rifle with the intention of smashing her head. My sister and I screamed so loud that it brought him to his senses.
Meanwhile, other Polish soldiers robbed our grandparents’ apartment. They stole all their silver and other valuable items, and smashed their piano and other furniture. They were in a terrible rage.
During the days and at nights, allied bombers circled the city, Hindenburg, (today Zabrze). The noise told us that the alarm sirens would soon be heard. Everybody looked for shelter, and we did it as well. Our cellar was very stable and served as a shelter. Mother rolled us up in a featherbed and pushed it down the stairs because we were not able to run. Grandmother brought us to safety just as a bomb hit our house. It landed in the bathtub of the upper apartment where mother had just soaked laundry, thus avoiding an explosion. The impact ripped a big hole into the outside wall, sending debris down to the lower floors.
My grandparents’ apartment, which was one story below, was covered with dust and dirt. Grandpa, who was eating his breakfast, jumped away at the last moment when he heard the dull noise and escaped serious injury.
The misery started from that moment. Germans were not allowed to speak their native language. Following Germany’s capitulation on May 8, 1945, food, and daily necessities were obtainable only with food stamps.
Our good fortune was the vegetable garden which my grandparents still maintained. Carrots and potatoes were covered with sand in the sandbox to protect them from cold temperatures during the winter. In the backyard, Grandpa kept several rabbits. As long as they were small, we kids could play with them. Later on, they served as our meals, since no meat was available.
We were not able to leave our homeland, which now belonged to Poland. Most of our relatives were in West Germany. The borders were closed, and we needed to adjust to the new situation. Suddenly, we realized what the “Iron Curtain” meant. All remaining Germans were forced to accept Polish citizenship. However, our family refused it. From that moment on our status was “stateless,” which meant that we came from nowhere, and did not belong to anyone. We didn’t belong to Germany or to Poland. History had repeated itself again. In previous centuries, Poland had often been occupied and divided, which made people insecure and ask, “Who am I?” and “Where do I belong?”
My mother and grandparents purposely refused the Polish citizenship, hoping that a family reunion would happen with the family in West Germany. The next ten years were very difficult. Grandfather had been imprisoned for several months because Polish authorities suspected that he had been a member of the Nazi Party. Fortunately, witnesses who had known him for years were able to prove the contrary.
Since my father was killed on the Eastern Front in 1942, mother was forced to find a job to keep us going. Father was captain of the German Police Boarder Enforcement, and due to an administrative mistake, his battalion was deployed to the Russian Front. He visited my godmother, Nurse Gertrud, in Riga before joining his fellow soldiers. He was killed by a shellfire on June 5, 1942, near Rogawka, Russia.
My grandfather, whose occupation was chimney sweeper, continued his work in the industrial area and contributed financially to our household. Grandmother took charge of the household and also cared for us children in the best way she could.
Because the use of the German language was forbidden, our friends and neighbors met in neutral places, such as in our garden or in parks where nobody could listen to the German language the adults were speaking.
As children, we picked up the Polish language quickly, which also helped mother to enroll us in the kindergarten, and later into grammar school. But in 1946, the situation worsened, and my grandfather decided that we should leave Zabrze immediately. Through friends a truck was hired, and during the night, one bed frame, pillows, blankets and personal items were quickly loaded. In no time we were on the way towards a small village, Grabin, where my grandfather’s sister had a small farm house.
As we arrived there, we realized that we were not welcome. Aunt Anna did not keep close contact with her brother—my grandfather—and made our stay miserable. She was a mean woman, a widow who lived with her daughter of the same name. I remember that both were always dressed in dark or black dresses. Their home was dirty, bugs were all over, and no bathroom or proper sanitary equipment was available, causing me to get very sick. My legs were sore from insect bites and boils which resulted in open and bleeding wounds. Mother washed them with chamomile tea to keep dirt and further infection away. Mother contacted the Catholic priest, who was able to assist us during this time of transition. In the meantime, grandfather had moved to another city, Wrocław. There he found a job and we were supposed to follow him, but this took more than several months. Meanwhile, my sister, who was eighteen months older than me, enrolled in the grammar school which was located next to the church. There was only one classroom and one teacher. The teacher divided the students up according to their ages, and had to teach in shifts.
Finally, in late spring of 1947, we moved. Again a truck was organized and we were on our way towards the city of Breslau—today Wroclaw. We did not know what to expect. Also, we could not understand why it took so long for our grandfather to get us there. He, in the meantime, had a liaison with a woman, and therefore was preoccupied.
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Chapter 2
As mentioned in the previous chapter, pursuit and harassment as well as imprisonment of my grandfather forced us to leave our birth city Hindenburg (today Zabrze) very discreetly one night in 1947. A loaded truck brought us to a village where we stayed with relatives for several months until Grandfather found work and a place to live in Wrocław. This city used to be German prior to WW II and, therefore, it was a target to be destroyed.
Wrocław is the capital of Lower Salesia, one of Poland’s most populous regions, and it is located at the intersection of transcontinental routes linking Scandinavia with Southern Europe, and Western Europe with Ukraine. Situated on the Odra River, Wroclaw is known as the city of a hundred bridges. Its remarkable history is reflected in its architectural and artistic heritage. Its rapid development over the last decade has made Wroclaw one of Central Europe’s most exciting cities. Visitors were moved by the church monuments located on an island surrounded by the river Odra.
In 1947, when entering the city, there were burned houses, ruins and damaged street. It was a sad welcome. The house facades, generally gray and full of gun holes, made a very depressing and devastating impression on us. And we thought that this city was supposed to give us shelter!
We stopped in front of a six-story apartment house. Next to it was a burned out house and we were afraid it would collapse at any time. It did indeed, and soon it was brought down. Because a high rate of unemployment existed, people were called for work, but this work meant to clean the bricks by hand and sort them out for reuse. Then those bricks were transported to the capital, Warsaw. It was priority for the Polish government to rebuild its capital.
Life went on in Wrocław. Only some streets were cleaned up and patched. We move and settled in on the sixth floor. There was no elevator, and no staircase light. Each floor accommodated four apartments. On the sixth floor there were two apartments, with two families sharing the bathroom. There was also an attic with access to the roof and a laundry drying loft. Between the ceiling and roof there was no insulation. Rats were racing at night.
The apartment itself consisted of two simple rooms, a little kitchen and a storage room. We were five people living in this small apartment. The arrangement was that one room served as a bedroom and the other as a living, dining and family room combined. Since we had only one bed (Grandfather’s), it was necessary to organize bed frames with straw bags replacing the missing mattresses. We pulled the bed frames out of the surrounding ruins. We added two bed frames, and by that time we had three beds which had to be shared among five people. Each day we were looking for some “goodies” and necessities.
My sister and I were enrolled in the grammar school. Mother started to work at the hospital as a nurse assistant, and Grandpa continued his profession as a chimney sweeper. People liked him very much, therefore, companies supplied him with meat, sausages and other helpful items for us.
At school we made friends, and I was very lucky to be awarded each year for being one of the best students. In the afternoon, I was usually involved in soccer and handball games with classmates. During the summers we went swimming or did other sporting activities. But we also spent four weeks each year on our uncle’s farm. Uncle Theofil was Mother’s cousin and the son of my grandfather’s brother Josef. They all used to live in Sidzina (formally Hennersdorf ) in the county of Nysa. From the Preissner family I only remember my grandfather and his nephew Theofil. Beside my grandfather’s job as chimney sweeper, he also participated in the farmland ownership with uncle Theofil. Both considered themselves to be German, which caused tremendous conflicts later on after the area was declared to be part of Poland. German citizens and people of German descent were forced to leave the area, and people from eastern part of Poland, which had been occupied by Russia, were resettled into the previously German Silesia.
The mentality of those eastern people I can only describe as very low-leveled, rowdy, uneducated and unpleasant. They did not even know the word “culture.” They inherited partially the temper of the Ukraine, based on the rough climate where they lived, and they loved to drink and fight.
Those people moved next to and around my uncle’s property. You were only a friend with them when you brought one or two bottles of vodka. I have to admit that uncle Theofil liked once in a while to drink, but he felt responsible for his family and property.
The situation got out of hand during the Stalin era in the early 1950s when the Polish government started to seize farmers’ land and force them to join the national collective farming system. My uncle refused to. The farmland he did not want to give up and he fought for it. Here the tragedy started. Twice, as I recall, he was stoned in the fields and badly injured and the family had to rescue him. Still, he did not give up. He had to sign an agreement to share his harvest. For a while they did not threatened him.
The trip from Wrocław via Brzeg to Skoroszyce took us approximately four to five hours. From there our uncle picked us up with a horse-drawn vehicle and we continued about seven kilometers bumping around the pot holes. The trains at that time were not comfortable at all. Passenger trains were commuting only from big city to big city, therefore, often we had to take the cattle wagons. The reason to go to the farm, besides the fun we experienced, was to get more nutritional meals.
The farm consisted of a farmhouse with one room on the main floor where we all slept, and a kitchen with a manual water pump. The water came out of the well located in the hallway. The second floor had two small rooms, but nobody was sleeping there because the wooden floor was rotten and nobody could step on it. Immediately next to the farmhouse was the pig sty and cow shed connected, and above that the hayloft. There was also a corner which housed a chicken coop.
Two barns served for the harvested grain and for tooling, such as a plow and threshing machine. Everything was simple and primitive compared to present day equipment. Uncle Theofil had two horses, three cows and two pigs.
We had fun with the outhouse next to the dunghill. When using it we counted and observed spiders around us, not to mention the flies. We still laugh about it today.
During the days Uncle Theofil assigned chores to us. First we helped harvest hay, load it on the hay wagon, climbed on top of it, drove home and unloaded it to the hay loft. Another task was to tender the cows. We had to lead them to the pasture ground. Out of boredom we baked potatoes sticks over campfires. On rainy days we helped Aunt Otilie in the house. We learned how to churn butter and make farmers cheese. The best was the bread and cake she baked. We had to bring the prepared bread dough and baking tins to the local bakery. There they had a huge oven. The use of the oven was assigned by the baker. Our aunt baked every week. My sister and I could hardly wait to pick up the fresh baked bread and cake. We started nibbling on the way home. It was just too tempting. Later we ate the bread with mustard spread, since cold cuts were not always available. The fresh baked bread we ate with butter and mustard. For us it was heavenly. Butchering was done only in winter. The meat was mostly made into sausages, ham and bacon, which were later smoked.
During the last two weeks of our stay we helped to harvest grain and bring it into the barns. The bundling was done by hand. The ties were made from straw prior to the harvest. Then the dried out bundles were loaded and brought in and unloaded into the barns. Later the grain was threshed, separated from the straw and the grain was brought to the mill. The straw, however, was stored and used in the cow and horse sheds.
Unfortunately, we learned later that our Uncle Theofil had a fatal accident. We were told that while he was repairing the threshing machine, his niece turned on by mistake the high-voltage power which killed him.
In 2002, my sister, mother and husband Rudi visited this farm. My aunt Otilie passed away some time ago. There was only the niece Hilde with her children living. Hilde was uncle Theofil’s niece. She told us that after my aunt Otilie died, her husband was found hanging in a tree with a cigarette in his hand. Shortly after that, both barns burned down. Hilde thought she knew who did it, but because she couldn’t speak Polish well and had no support from others, she gave up the fight for justice. Five years later her daughter, with her brothers and some helpers, started to make their house livable. Hilde died many years ago.
It was heartbreaking to see how this little farm was rundown. Hilde had four children, three boys and one girl. One of the boys committed suicide; the other two have a mental illness which is controlled by medication. The daughter, Barbara, was the only healthy and hardworking person in the family. She carried on the responsibility for the household and her siblings. She married and divorced, but raised her two children in the best way she could and who are today are doing very well at school. After her mother passed away, she managed to get the farmhouse remodeled, and she proudly told me on the phone that they have now a nice and clean bathroom. Everything seemed to fall in place for her.
At that time the area was influenced by the Communist regime. Schools forced everyone to be a member of a youth group (similar to Boy/Girl scouts) with propaganda activities. On days such as May first (Labor Day in Europe) or May ninth (Capitulation/War end celebration), we had to participate in parades carrying signs and photos of Communist Party members. In schools, religion or prayers were not allowed. However, because Poland was a Catholic country, and bishops and cardinals were fighting for religious freedom, there was some improvement. Churches were crowded on Sundays and holidays.
Following seven years of grammar school, students continued for four years at a high school before enrolling in a university or technical college. The education standard was at a very high level. School hours were usually from 8.00 a.m. till 2.00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. Homework was given every day.
The public high schools were for Polish citizens only. Since we were marked “stateless,” there was no chance for us to enroll.
Mother contacted a private school conducted by Catholic nuns, and my older sister Karin was accepted first, while I followed a year later.
The school rules were very strict. A uniform code had to be observed. Unfortunately, the tuition at this private school was very high and many parents were not able to afford it. Learning foreign languages was a must, and the Russian language was number one in the public schools, as well as in private schools. Additional languages were German or French in the public school, and French or Latin in private high schools.
Some of our grammar school friends who were Jewish had to struggle with the Communist system. Jewish people were not loved by their Polish neighbors. Some of the reasons were the intelligence and talents they were blessed with. Their ability to be in managing positions, such as bank and financial areas, was hated.
Their involvement in jewelry businesses and their trade skills with gold and diamonds were called “dirty business.” The worst of all was their faith and temple activities. The Jewish people were harassed, and quite often imprisoned.
That happened to the Jewish mother of my girlfriend Marilyn. For several months her mother was in prison. One time I accompanied Marilyn to the courthouse. One room faced the prison side. Through the court window we communicated in sign language with Marilyn’s mother. Marilyn had to drop out of school and take over the household. She cared for her small sister Sarah. Marilyn missed the last graduation year of the grammar school, and therefore, she could not enroll in a high school.
The year 1955 was an important year for me and my family. I enrolled in the private high school in September, and a few weeks later we celebrated the golden anniversary of our grandparents. Friends and family members joined the festivity in our small apartment. At that time we did not know that this would be the last family festivity in Wrocław. My grandmother was very fragile; she lost a lot of weight and suffered from Parkinson’s disease, while my grandfather was in great shape. The marriage had not a happy one. He was a grumpy and angry man and he made the celebration very tense.
At first my grandfather did not want to participate in this family event, but finally my mother pressured him and everybody met in church for the blessing. My sister and I got for the first time new hairdos, and Mother furnished us with long taffeta dresses. Dinner was later served in the small apartment.
The political situation was very tense, and changes in the government were disputed. The German chancellor, Konrad Adenauer, visited Moscow, and the president of the German Red Cross, Professor Peter Weiss, went to Warsaw. The agenda for both gentlemen was to enforce family unification for German citizens. By accident our mother met Professor Weiss, who visited Wroclaw. He assured her that our family would be one of the first families to leave the country on the Red Cross train. We had to keep it as secret as possible. We were afraid that jealous neighbors or acquaintances would jeopardize it. Too many people of German descent tried same way as we did to be relocated to West Germany. They would not have understood why it was us and not them. We were afraid that badmouthing our family to officials, would lead to a failure in getting out of Poland.
At the end of 1955 we received the paperwork and started to pack. It was a stressful time. Many things were left behind, such as furniture and kitchen supplies. Mother distributed money and gifts to people who helped us to leave the town. The trip took us by special truck to Szczecin, a port on the Baltic Sea. There was a camp, where the chosen families gathered in order to embark the Red Cross train which brought us to the West. Exactly one year later we learned that the new Polish government had forced all Jewish people out of the country. My friends Marilyn and Rita and their families, were among the Jewish people who left, either to Israel or Austria. Many years later we found each other in Vienna and the United States.
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Chapter 3
Wrocław Part Two - In Memory of my Teacher Pani Janina
In April 2011 a phone call from Poland informed us that my former elementary school teacher, Pani Janina Lupaczyk, had passed away after a ten years of illness. Her daughter Marta gave us this sad news, which also came as a relief. We knew how difficult those years had been. During the last years a nurse had to be with Pani Janina around-the-clock. Pani Janina had injured her head when she fell down some stairs. From then on she slowly lost functions. She did not recover from her injuries and declined more and more. I remember her as a very lively, bright and articulate lady who was born on November 7, 1913 in Grodno, a town located today in Belarus, part of the former Soviet Union, which once belonged to the eastern part of Poland. She married her husband Alexander on August 1, 1939. He passed away on February 28, 1982. He had suffered a stroke and medical assistance had come too late. The couple had one daughter, Marta, who was born on January 12, 1953, and who married her husband Jurek on November 23, 1974. Two granddaughters extended their small family. Ula was born on April 4, 1975, and Dorka was born on February 12, 1980.
The last time I saw Pani Janina was when my mother and my sister accompanied my husband Rudi and me to Wroclaw. We fulfilled my mother’s wish to once more to see the place that she called her home. Unfortunately, we did not realize at the time that her dementia had already kicked in, as she did not recognize places where she used to work and live.
I remember Pani Janina from the time I was enrolled to the first grade class in 1947. The war experience and relocations made me shy and anxious to deal with new environments and people. We settled down in Wroclaw, and the elementary school happened to be across the street. My grandmother was able to see me in the classroom when she looked out the window of our sixth floor apartment.
My school enrollment papers were checked and approved. I knew that my life would change drastically. We had already experienced difficulties with our documents, which indicated that we were Staatenlos, which meant to be without citizenship. Polish authorities had tried to force my family to acknowledge Polish citizenship, however, we declined, hoping that one day we would be reunited with our family in West Germany. After the war the borders had been moved and the area we used to live in, and which once had belonged to Germany, was now declared Polish. The area where Pani Janina originated from used to be Polish and is now Russian. She, as well as many others, was forced to relocate and move to the western part of present-day Poland.
At home we spoke German. The Polish language was difficult for me. Children, as we know, can be very rude and did not understand the circumstances of my troubles. They made fun of me and called me “Szwabka,” which was a slander directed at Germans.
Here Pani Janina stepped in as a guardian. She tried to explain to the children what it felt like to be relocated, losing your home and having to learn a new language. She helped me to ignore such behavior or fight it. Several times she came to my rescue when she caught me crying and offered me advice on how to overcome nastiness and to concentrate on my learning. I never forgot her saying, “with friendliness you will win over your enemies.”
Those basic steps helped me to concentrate on my studies, and soon I was one of the advanced students, not only in the first, or second grades, but also in the higher grade classes. I also received book awards at each of the end-of-the-school-year ceremonies. Also I proved how tough I could be. If necessary, I was not shy to fight with boys, but also showed them my ability in playing either soccer or handball. Most of the time I played in goal.
I remember when Pani Janina got very sick and had to stay home. I organized with some school friends a home visit and we brought her flowers and a fruit basket which was difficult to come by. She never forgot it and mentioned it often to my mother or grandfather when they attended teacher-parent meetings. My grandfather always came home beaming because he was very proud to hear good news. Since I loved geography and math, Pani Janina assigned me to help fellow students to brush up on their learning so they could pass the final tests.
To have to say goodbye to her when the time came to leave the country was heartbreaking and very emotional for us. I was losing a guardian and a friend who always found a moment to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on, but we promised to each other to stay in touch.
The first three years in Germany were very tough. During the years in Poland I had lost the ability to communicate in German. Therefore, I had a hard time socializing with other students and adjusting to a different lifestyle. At the time we left Poland, the country’s economy and lifestyle was very poor with a lot of limitations in regard to food and other necessities. In Germany, on the other hand, stores were flooded with merchandise and supermarkets had fruits I had never seen. Often I had the feeling of not being welcomed. Due to a different mentality, people were not eager to offer a helping hand. We were still known as refugees with no place in that society. In my letters to Pani Janina I complained many times to her about it. In her in response she asked me to be patient and give it some time. I had to admit that our correspondence kept the Polish language alive in me, at least in reading and writing. There was no one I could converse with, and I was afraid that over time the language would fade. My two girlfriends, Maryla and Rita, had left the country as well, one to Israel, the other to the Czech Republic, and later to Austria. Only after ten years did I find them and we started communicating with each other.
In 1969 I was able to book a holiday return trip to Poland. The program covered only Warsaw and surroundings including sightseeing, theater events and New Year’s Eve celebrations. Prior to booking the trip I made sure I could spare one day and visit Pani Janina in Wroclaw. I informed her over the phone of the details of my arrival by train. It was supposed to be a secret trip because foreigners were being watched by the authorities. Yes, I was very nervous. The husband of Pani Janina met me at the station and we took a taxi to go to her home. I was exhausted and they insisted that I take a two-hour nap. Afterwards, we had a few hours to catch up with each other before I had to return.
I met Marta, the daughter of my teacher who had just turned sixteen. Marta was a very bright and pleasant young lady who later became a very close friend. They all accompanied me the next day to the train station and I promised to visit them again, not knowing when that might be.
I never imagined that my professional career would ever bring me back to Poland. However, fate would have it that in 1972 I did return to Poland as an employee for the German Trade Mission, which later became the Embassy of the West German Republic. And yes, I had to pass a test as the translator for the German/Polish and Polish/German language.
During my two-year term in Warsaw I visited Wroclaw often and was able to supply the family with non-perishable food items and clothing for their daughter.
My term in Warsaw ended after two years when I received a transfer notice to Chicago. There were quick goodbyes again. While being in Chicago our communication continued for seventeen years. During this time I learned that Marta had married in 1974, the granddaughters were born, and that the husband of Pani Janina had died in 1983. I was very sad at not being able to participate in those happy, but also sad, events. That family was always close to my heart.
In 1991 my husband and I were transferred to Germany on business. Since I told Rudi so much about Wroclaw and the family of my previous teacher, he was eager to visit this city as well as to meet the family. We drove there by car and stayed for a few days of sightseeing, visiting my old school and talking about old times. We happened to meet the school principal, who welcomed us and was exited to show us the handwritten school records. Surprise, surprise, there was my class, our teacher and my name mentioned. I was very touched. We talked about that with my teacher over a nice dinner. Even though she was already retired, she was still very alert and remembered many of the funny stories.
During this visit we invited her granddaughters to come to Germany and spend their summer vacation with us. They came each of the following three years.
We played school teaching them German and English, and they earned money by helping in the household and caring for our dog. We had the best time, and even today we talk about that and laugh about some mishaps.
As mentioned above, Pani Janina injured herself in 2001 and needed constant care. During one of our last visits she did not recognize me and faded into her own world. We all kept her in our prayers and hoped for a quick end, which finally came in April 2011. Our recent visit to Poland, and a memorial service for her, was the last way to honor her goodness and sincerity. May she rest in peace.
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Chapter 4
Search for a Better Life – The Wonderland Germany
Shortly before Christmas in 1955, our family and many others arrived with the Red Cross train in Friedland, West Germany. It was the very first attempt to bring families together that had been torn apart by the war. Friedland had established the very first refugee camp, which served to welcome people from the Eastern European countries.
We all had to pass health exams, register as refugees and receive the necessary instructions. We stayed in this temporary camp for only few days. We children found the offered food different compared to what we were used to. We got fruits which we had never seen, such as bananas, and a lot of sweets. It was the Christmas season. I remember getting sick from this food as my stomach could not handle it.
Our uncle George and his wife Ingeborg from Frankfurt came to greet us. They, of course, did not realize how poorly we looked and how we were dressed. They seemed to be ashamed to identify themselves as being related to us.
Suddenly, there was the rude awakening. My grandmother, who used to tell us the most wonderful stories about this country, experienced her first disappointment. She was very fragile and exhausted; she could not even keep a conversation going. Everything was overwhelming, looked different, and all the actions and commotions were too much to absorb. My uncle and aunt were under tremendous pressure since their only child—son Mathias—was dying of Leukemia, and they left him temporarily with a nurse at home.
After all formalities were concluded, our trip continued towards the Baltic Sea, at the northern part of West Germany. We took the train at the central station in Goettingen and got off in Luebeck, where our uncle Theo, my mother’s older brother, was supposed to expect us. Uncle Theo was a surgeon who was residing with his family in the town of Neustadt. We were told that he would pick us up at the train station. When we arrived and waited for him, we did not know where to look for him. So many years had passed, people had aged and appearances had changed. He did not recognize our little group. He passed us several times until Mother called his name. It must have been the greatest shock in his life.
Uncle Theo was accompanied by an older gentleman, Mr. Reese, who used to go hunting with him. Both came with uncle’s car, a Mercedes. We were too many people to fit in this car. Therefore, my sister and Mr. Reese had to take the train. On the way home I got sick again in my stomach, but my uncle was prepared, he had enough paper towels in his car.
Finally we arrived at home. My uncle had a big apartment within the clinic area and additional rooms had been made available to accommodate us. In the meantime, a three-story, one-family house was in the process of being built, which was ready by the end of 1956.
My aunt Hanna assumed that we would have difficulties in adjusting to different food, so she prepared a rice dish, which we did not like very much. She tried very hard to make us feel welcome. Aunt Hanna and Uncle Theo had three children from the age range of one year, two-and-a-half, and the oldest, five. It was not always easy for her to be the wife of a famous surgeon with added responsibilities. Today I am proud to say that nobody was as dedicated to the family as my aunt, even now in the age of ninety-two!
Our very first Christmas in Germany was special and different. My aunt made sure that we got new clothes and had all the other necessary daily items. Suddenly we became such a big family! The most difficult and frustrating experience was communicating in the German language. We used to speak Polish and understood some German, but to speak in German was very different. I was very shy and hesitant in regard to the German language. Our little cousins, whom I had to baby sit, forced us to speak in German.
My aunt arranged for us to be enrolled in the middle school for a few months until a private school had been found. In April 1956, the Secretary of Culture in Bonn realized that refugees with different native languages were a big problem. There were no teachers available with the knowledge of a different language. The schools had to be prepared, and the teachers trained in how to handle students like us. Finally, we were accepted into a private Catholic high school.
This private school was in Vechta, a town famous for various schools and prisons, and was a Catholic influenced area. This high school was a boarding school conducted by nuns. My sister and I were separated due to different class levels. We did not see each other often; it was not allowed, and I felt very lonely. There was a communication problem between the teacher and myself. I was very good in math, biology, physics, geography and chemistry, however, German, English and French were out of my range. I felt left out and was bored.
I played “mailman” between girl students and the boys, whose boarding school was not too far away. Before long I was caught. My mother was informed that I should be discharged immediately. I thought, “Thank God!” It was time for me to go. I just couldn’t stand to be there, and couldn’t make any friends.
My sister was lucky since she could finish the school with a knowledge of the Russian language. There was an older teacher who originated from the same area in Poland as we did. He knew Russian perfectly and received permission to give my sister the final exam in Russian instead of English.
There was no other solution than to return to the town where my uncle Theo was residing. I was glad to be back with my grandmother, whom I loved and adored. She, in the meantime, was very frail and sick and lost her will to live.
My mother in the meantime had to find a job, which was not easy. She began to attend seminars and enrolled in training sessions for the Red Cross in Bonn. At the beginning, money was a big issue, therefore, traveling to see us was out of question. For a long time Mother had to rent a room in Bonn with families who advertised availability. I hardly saw her, lost almost all contact and started to be estranged.
In Neustadt I enrolled back to the middle school and was lucky to have wonderful and understanding teachers. They helped me each step of the way. Not only did they help me with my school work, but they supported me emotionally as well. In addition to my school work, which included learning German, I helped my aunt Hanna to care for my grandmother until she died. I also helped with the household and cared for my cousins, who were by then nine, seven and five.
A retired teacher was a tutor who helped me to catch up with the German language and history as it was taught at school. When the final exams approached, we needed to submit an assignment with a voluntarily chosen subject. The teacher suggested that I turn in an assignment on “Salesia my Homeland.” The request was to be handwritten, nineteen letter-size pages. I turned in fifty handwritten pages!
My uncle Theo had a good reputation as a surgeon. He worked long hours but hardly got involved in family matters. He was particularly rude towards me, and I had the feeling of being an intruder in his household. Whenever he knew that our school class had a test he would greet me with the negative remark: “You did not pass it, isn’t it?” It didn’t matter whether I passed or not, he always said the same thing. It was discouraging for me.
My aunt Hanna tried to support me, but often we had to lie in order to avoid unpleasant discussions with my uncle. He either ignored or badmouthed me, often in front of other people. During his home parties I felt like a servant. I had to offer champagne, wine or snacks to guests. My uncle made fun of me and forced me to make a curtsey. Those were his stupid jokes.
As time went by, he abused me emotionally and sexually. I found support in my teachers. My mother was far away, and when I mentioned the abuse to her, she did not believe me. I was not able to talk to my aunt about it either. She was a wonderful and warm person, and I couldn’t find the courage to tell her what was happening. She later found out that her so famous surgeon husband had an affair with a prostitute. How long it was going on, we do not know. His changed behavior and his leaving the house in the evening made my aunt suspicions. She followed him once, was hiding behind the bushes in front of the house in which he entered and made only a noise which scared him off. Later, the closest friends confirmed to my aunt that they already knew about this liaison.
A strange lady intruded during a dinner party at a friend’s house and directed a question to my aunt, “Do you know whom your husband is visiting in the evening hours?”
From that moment, Uncle Theo stood up and tried to force my aunt to leave the house and to go home. My Aunt Hanna, however, bless her heart, remained sitting and continued to enjoy the evening. She did not pay any attention to my uncle who then left. All his doing almost destroyed his carrier as well as the marriage.
After graduating high school, I decided to participate in training as a nurse assistant. I needed this training prior to enrollment into the medical school in Hamburg. This training took place in a hospital located in the town of Papenburg. I stayed there for six months and I loved caring for sick people. I worked long hours, and several times also did night shifts. To this day I am still sometimes sorry for not becoming a nurse.
From there on, I got wiser, got adjusted to the western world and had a more positive outlook for the future.
In 1959, I had to choose the next educational step and decided to go to medical school. First I wanted to be a chemical lab technician, but then I decided for the profession of medical-technical assistant. That covered the area of clinical laboratories, pathology, bacteriology, chemistry, photography and radiotherapy.
The medical school in Hamburg was affiliated with one of the biggest hospitals in the city, and was a very well-known institution with strong demands. My sister, in the meantime, was involved in chemistry and finished her education in Kassel.
Because my mother could not afford very much pocket money to support us, I worked as an hourly helper in the shipping/receiving department on weekends at the publishing house of Der Spiegel and earned some money. I donated blood for a wonderful breakfast consisting of a boiled egg, cold cut, orange juice and milk, and also received thirty Deutschmarks pocket money. I donated blood six times, but had to stop because I got anemic. Quite often there were ups and downs; but many times I experienced having a guardian angel helping me out of distress. I learned to cherish friendship and be thankful for every new day.
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Chapter 5
February 28, 1958, is a day I will never forget. That was the day I said goodbye to my grandmother Maria, whom I mourned for ten years after her death. I’ve visited her grave on a regular basis since then. If I needed help or was sad, I would talk to her as if she was my guardian angel. Therefore, I decided to dedicate this chapter to her.
Grandmother was born in 1882 in Wesel, a town located in the Rhine River area in the western part of Germany. As I understood, she had a very happy childhood and loving parents, but I don’t remember them since I was too small when my mother, my sister and I visited them.
My grandmother fell in love with grandfather Emanuel. His occupation at that time was a chimney-sweeper—a very important job, especially in the industrial areas. He came from Salesia, the most eastern part of Germany which now is part of Poland. The lovebirds married and moved to Hindenburg (today Zabrze), a city with heavy industry such as coal mines and metallurgical plants. They had six children; three boys and three girls. One of the boys died when he was just one year old. The older of the remaining two boys, Theo, became a surgeon, and his brother George went into business. One of the girls, Maria, who was born illegitimate, specialized in health care apparels and later health food distribution. As my grandfather requested, the other girls, my aunt Hedwig, and my mother Lucia, had to stay home and be “kitchen oriented.” My aunt did not agree with this and left her parents’ home to search for a life of her own. My mother—the most spoiled child—remained with her parents even after she married my father in 1937.