War Costs More Than Money - Part III
The Young and the Helpless
by Alfred Opp
My brother was eight years old and I was not yet 15 when the
security guards took away our parents. Left on our own, we had to
find ways to survive. People in our apartment house were also
stressed and, fearful to be seen with Germans, momentarily went cold
on us. We wanted to stay alive and well until our parents came home.
My brother and I avoided any contacts. Most of our time we spent
huddled up in our apartment. My brother and I were very close, and
he stood up well under this situation. As time went by, we were down
to one meal a day.
It was very cold outside - people could not remember when it had
been so cold. To go outside was to risk getting sick. Desperate for
assistance, we thought the church might help us. One day we went
looking for a church, seeking help. When we found a church, there
was not a soul around. The door was unlocked so we went in. What we
found was a god-forsaken place. Benches had been moved aside and the
aisles used to house troops. Behind the altar we found trash mixed
with human excrement. The entire building was a ransacked mess,
however the altar with the crucifix was still in place. As we looked
around, we found a bookmark in the debris and also a booklet. We
picked both up to save them. I remember so well how we stood there,
totally lost. To us it felt we had hit the wall. Feeling sad, we
left and went back to our apartment. That night, like any other
night, we knelt down by the bed to say the prayers Mother had taught
us when we were little. This time we had the two items from the
church with us. Just going to a church left us feeling good. Despite
the church being full of dirt and stench. the Lord gave us a
gift that provided us with some peace of mind. It was a crucial time
for us and helped us maintain our inner strength.
My parents were solid in mind and character. They had good hearts
and they walked a straight line, never wavering. We children were
expected to work for what we got. Mom and Dad gave us an open door
to gain independence. They never used scare-tactics on us to keep us
from sinning. If we did sin, Father told us what we did wrong and
how to fix it. If we didn't take his advice, he helped us with the
strap. We received such help anytime we needed it. They loved us and
we loved them. It was our parents who led us to freedom.
In our life, God is the referee. The playing field is the world
around us. To win at the game, we have to train hard. If we carried
extra stuffing, we worked it off. We didn't need drugs or sermon
artists to do it for us. In prayer, one comes to see himself - a
true picture shows up within the person. With a signal from God, our
conscience paints the picture well. Minds can work miracles, and
often do. Today, I thank my parents for their wisdom and leadership.
Starting early, I was taught to be strong and independent, standing
on solid ground with advantages that we earned. There were victories
and defeats, laughter and tears and many wounds. I thank God and the
people in my life that I walked away from it whole.
The apartment building we were in had five units - Polish people
occupied four of these. We were the lone Germans and were not
exactly welcomed. After a while it got better, but never came close
to what one could call trust. We Germans were forbidden to have
close contact with the Poles. The Polish people knew this, and also
had no interest in becoming our friends. My mother was such a
friendly person - her neighbors could not give her the cold shoulder
for long. Soon the apartment building was like one family, with but
one orphan. When our neighbors asked how we were doing, our answer
was always "Very well." The trust of our neighbors that my
folks worked so hard for, paid off in the long run. When Poland got
their town back, the people in our apartment building did not report
us, even though they were strictly instructed to stay away from any
German, and and warned that if someone was caught helping a German
friend or neighbor they would be punished. Our neighbors refused to
be intimidated, and stood by us. Two of our neighbors told us to
bring our belongings to them for safe keeping. We did that gladly.
What they couldn't prevent was a routine check by the local police.
It was then that our parents were taken away, leaving us boys home
alone. We soon ran out of most food items. There was no additional
food available - you couldn't buy or even steal anything during the
closing days of the war and for days after the fighting moved on.
Our neighbors, Josef and Mieta Pieck had a teenage daughter, their
only child. One day she mysteriously disappeared. Our neighbors were
devastated. Mieta believed that if she would help us, God
would help her daughter. A piece of bread from Mieta saved us from
starvation. Mieta's change of heart toward us also helped us to get
back in contact with our mother. We owed a lot to those people.
After the war, I kept in contact with Mieta until she died. Mieta
never heard from her daughter again. The world was frozen - people's
hearts were cold, but Josef and Mieta had warm hearts and gave us a
hand when we were in need.
___________
Sbosiba - Thank You
I can't say if the spelling here is correct. It is a beautiful
word to me as is. I heard Grandpa say it to his Russian
friends. I'm glad I remembered it, especially in Poland where I
needed it most.
The Soviets made a clean sweep against the city we were in. As
Germans, we were trapped and in a fight for our lives. The Polish
people were starving, and so were we. For us to get food was even
harder than for the Poles, because we were the hunted. My brother
and I were alone in our apartment. After two weeks in this
situation, obtaining food became a desperate need for us. Nobody
knew where the next bite was coming from. Everything outside was
frozen. Dead horses had been partly stripped for their meat. People
were fearful to go out onto the street; and when they did they
quickly took the nearest meat they could find. However, I never
could bring myself to eat horse meat. My brother and I were down to
a few potatoes and bit of preserves. These we stretched by eating
only one small meal per day.
Walking the street one day, I saw some Russian supply wagons. On one
an old man was sitting, eating his lunch. As I walked by, I looked
at him and smiled. He smiled back. I stepped back and was looking
over his horses. He saw me doing this and called me over. I knew no
Russian, but felt comfortable to go near him. He said something in
Russian, then gave me a slice of bread. When I said "sbosiba," his
face lit up. Quickly I gestured to him that I didn't speak Russian.
The old man signaled me to wait. He went to the back of his wagon,
got a loaf of bread, and gave it to me. I bowed my head and said "Sbosiba,
Papa,
sbosiba." I then left. A smile and thanks ended
that little war. Then again, the old man and I never were in it.
_________________
The holiness of the dead.
The war left our town in Poland with a gruesome picture. Dead people
were seen everywhere. Some people got caught waving white sheets
from an upper floor window. Not trusting anyone, snipers picked them
off with ease. Their bodies were left hanging out the windows, like
bedding being aired on a sunny day. It took days before they were
removed. A lady from our apartment house called me over one day and
warned me to not go picking through the pockets of the dead. She
told me that Russians believe dead people are holy, and that
disturbing them is bad luck. I assured the lady that I was not
planning on doing any such thing. Days later, men showed up to take
away the bodies lying about. To see them work was like watching men
remove rubbish. Only later did it hit me: In war, how sacred a dead
person is. But a living one isn't worth saving.
____________
I liked pigeons - so did Bogdan.
Bogdan was the son of a Polish couple who lived downstairs in our
apartment building. The family was rather private, but friendly when
we met. One day Bogdan saw me leaving with a travel bag, and asked
where I was going. I didn't see him that often, and when I did he
was always nice to me, so I told him I was going to my grandparent's
farm. He asked if I could bring back a bag of feed for his pigeons.
"You got pigeons? Back home, I had some too," I said. "I haven't
seen yours. Where are they?"
"At my friends place," he said. He promised that when I got back, he
would let me see them. When I returned from my grandparent's farm,
Bogdan wasn't around, so I gave the feed to his dad. I rarely saw
him after that. Later, when the Soviets moved in, I saw him more
often - he was a policeman. People in our apartment then told us
that he had worked for the underground disguised as a street
sweeper. He had no pigeons himself - the underground had carrier
pigeons working for them. Bogdan and his parents strangely kept
their distance from us. They didn't harm us, but they didn't
help us either. I still like pigeons. I cannot blame the pigeons for
what happened. In the war, they got confused and went the wrong way.
________________________
The final solution.
A 76-year-old grandmother was a healthy person. Caring for seven
children on a farm she walked a bit bent over. The Plan Makers
thought she might be a burden to the family settling in. She was put
into a Care Home where she suddenly died of "pneumonia." Ironically,
the relatives were not allowed to visit her for fear of spreading an
illness. After the war the truth came out. It was not God who called
these elderly people home.
Alfred Opp
Edited by Connie Dahlke
___________________
Alfred Opp is the author of "Pawns on the World Stage" - the memoirs
of his childhood in Teplitz, Bessarabia and the experiences of his
family in war-torn Europe (Poland during 1941-1945 before they fled
to East Germany in 1945, then the reconstruction of West Germany
1945-1955).