CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE GREAT DIVIDE

January 1952 was the great divide year of my life. No earthquake has ever brought about such changes in anyone’s life, as the visit of the stranger did to mine.

Father had been gone for three and a half years. We knew that he was in Paris for a while, struggling to re-establish himself. When Radio Free Europe was authorized by the Congress of the United States and its headquarters built in the Englischer Garten section of Munich, Germany, Father was invited to join its staff of the Czech Department. It meant not only renewal of his creative activities, but also a comfortable apartment, provided by RFE and a good salary. Father was now ready and able to act.

Mother left a short tape recording, recalling the beginnings of this transformation, beginnings I was not privy to, until later. As you will recall, I was away at the factory all day long, which left Mother alone on the days she were not working. However, she was not completely alone, as our co-inhabitants occupied two of the four rooms.

This was a time when utmost caution was exercised by all. The saying that ‘walls have ears’, was never more true. Not only were we not sure of the allegiance of the next door neighbors, but we were not sure about the people living in the same apartment. Let me illustrate with a joke that was popular in those days.

On the main square of the city, two men are admiring a brand new car, obviously of American manufacture. One man says to the other, "What a beautiful Russian car!".

"Russian?", exclaims the other man. "This is an American car. Can’t you tell?".

"Well, yes", replies the first, "I can tell about the car ... it’s you I am not sure about!".

So, put yourselves into the position Mother was in. Already jailed once by the Communist Regime, blackballed, because of her husband’s absence and illegal departure, from pursuing her profession, betrayed by at least one person she considered a friend, a young strange woman in the apartment, listening and watching for everything that goes on, her motives unclear. The doorbell rings.

Mother was afraid. But some instinct told her not to turn him away, but to listen. He introduced himself as Mr Fiala, in English, Mister Violet. He had a letter for her. As she took the letter and opened it with shaking hands, she immediately recognized her husband’s handwriting. Absolutely authentic. No one, of this I am sure, no one, no matter how skillful could present a forgery of my father’s writing.

The letter introduced and identify Fiala, using the missing thumb as identification mark, as one hired to bring Mother and myself across the borders into West Germany. There was no question in Mother’s mind, no decision that needed to be made. The freedom lost, the hard labor conditions under which she and I labored under, the offer of freedom of the West, the promise of a better life not only for her, but especially for me, had made the decision easy. All that needed to be done, was to set the date.

As the stranger was leaving, I came in. I eyed him curiously, never having seen him before. Mother did not introduce him and he left. Mother had a dilemma. What to say to her son. She feared two things. That I may, inadvertently confide in someone that we were planning an escape, and even worse, that I may not want to leave.

You may wonder why anyone, living under conditions such as I have described, would refuse to leave. Ah!, but there were many such people!

To leave a life familiar, a place well known, a culture that is one’s own for parts unknown, places unseen, full of uncertainty - that is a big decision. A young boy just approaching his sixteenth birthday, who for that many years has been building up a life with friends in a place where he knew every square inch might hesitate to leave all that behind.

I had just arranged the apartment, having joined my room and Mother’s bedroom via a speaker system which I used nightly to read to her from my poem I had just finished, a poem of some forty hand-written pages about a life of a water sprite and his love unrequited. Even though I hated what I had to do every day, mainly because I lacked the skills needed to file down a piece of metal to minute tolerances, I was, in other ways content.

Even though Mother never directly commented on my private life, she had said enough later on, for me to know she was aware of my awakening interests. And though she thought that the object of my affection was Jana, she, nevertheless knew, there was a girl in my life. So, she feared I would refuse to go. She was therefore prepared to withhold the information from me, until it became established fact.

She told me that Mr Fiala was a distant relative from the southern Šumava regions, who came to invite us to his farm for the annual slaughter festival. That rang true. I knew that each January, farmers would slaughter a pig or two, dunking it into boiling water to loosen the hairs which were then scraped off, and the animal skinned.

The skin was cut into small squares and rendered into crunchy bits we used on bread, along with a generous spreading of the fat.

The intestines were filled with ground up parts of the pig mixed with barley (I think!), cut into foot-long pieces, held together by two small sticks of wood. Jitrnice, as these were called, could be boiled or fried, providing a delicious meal. The head cheese that was made at this time from the head of the pig was another delicacy. In other words, in a world of little joy, a slaughter festival was right next to Christmas. I, of course, happily agreed.

Particularly a destination near the borders would be well checked. Many people have successfully crossed the borders into Austria and West Germany, even though the borders were well guarded. A twenty-mile wide zone was established all around the borders, the access into it was forbidden. Anyone who had lived in that area was relocated. There were barbed wires, mine fields, border patrols with dogs, guard towers. A forbidden, dead zone.

I knew of some successful escapes, the so-called "Freedom Train", a full complement of wagons and people which crashed its way across the northern borders, for example. I also knew of escapes in which the people were not so lucky. A well-known actress who tried to escape into West Germany not long prior to this date, was caught and brought back. We were told, whether it be true or not I do not know, that the border guards would get a week’s vacation for each escapee they caught. And two weeks for each one they shot! So, Mother’s nervousness was understandable.

Just before our arrival in the little town that was our destination, the inspectors came, gave a fleeting look at our papers and went on their way. We have arrived.

I was surprised and disappointed that no one was waiting for us at the station. It had snowed for several days prior to the twenty-first, the snow depth reached above our knees, the banks and drifts were, of course, higher. The day, however was sunny, if cold. The road was well packed down. There were no plows, the roads were packed down by big rollers drawn by horses. Still, it was disappointing not to get to ride in a sleigh!

We explained to them where we were going and they pointed us to the right road, cautioning us to stay on the road, and be swift, as the farm was almost an hour’s walk, and the afternoon was growing short. Thanking them, we were on our way.

I do not remember how long we walked along this road, the banks high enough to prevent me from seeing the surrounding area, but I could tell it was all open, most likely fields or meadows. Looming in the distances, I could see trees, the beginning of the forest, the road being swallowed by the woods.

Now, let me tell you about the Šumava woods. The land slopes upward, forming the Šumava Range, then down again, toward Germany. The land is uneven, hilly, crags and brooks, flowing even in the dead of the Winter punctuating the landscape. Among the giant spruces and pines, is much underbrush, forming barriers which cannot be penetrated, with many clearings scattered about. Especially in the days of the fifties, the underbrush was thick, as no lumbering or any other use was permitted. The only clear paths were those between the guard towers, placed about a mile apart. This path was perhaps hundred yards wide. The snow is always deep in these woods, this year even more so. It is not an area where the inexperienced or city-softened would wish to travel.

As we approached the woods, Mr Fiala appeared and beckoned to us. I was glad to see him. The farmer had, after all, come to meet us. Yet, instead of walking on the road, he led us deep into the woods, till we came to a clearing, where six other people moved about, keeping warm.

I was confused. And I remember, an undefined fear gripped me. It squeezed my stomach and made my heart flutter. I have read and heard enough to know. I knew, at that moment, what was ahead of us. And the fear of being caught or shot grabbed my throat. My mother, anxiously took me by the hand, and let out the words she had been keeping back; words I did not want to hear.

"We are running away, Paul", she told me. "We are going to Germany, to Dad". As she looked around the group, she spotted someone about my age. "Look!", she said, "There is another boy, about your age here!".

I do not honestly remember all the emotions that were within me. As I mentioned, fear was one of them. But, the call of adventure, the new worlds to see, the possibilities that might be open to me, all those were also a part of the thoughts that flew through my mind. Mr Fiala was surprised, and somewhat angry, that I did not know. Then he realized, how much better it was, in case we were stopped, I could honestly talk about the festival and all the food I was looking forward to.

We stayed in the clearing until dark, then our trek began.

The moon was bright, casting weird shadows through the trees. Rather than making the walking easier, it hindered it. Trudging through freshly fallen snow of some eighteen inches over an uneven terrain, with logs and boulders hidden underneath, with brooks, covered over by the snow, yet instantly visible once stepped into, and all this at night!

To say it was difficult would be an understatement. It was exhausting. Though we rested every hour, the rest did not really refresh. After some time, we became so fatigued, our feet moved on their own, with no mental direction. Every part of my body ached. I was so tired, I wanted to lay down and stay there. There were several times I truly wished the border patrols would come and catch us, just so I could stop walking.

I was roused from this mental fatigue by Mother’s exhaustion. She, too, was unable to go on, and voiced it. She suggested we leave her behind. I remember becoming angry. Very angry. Not at her, but at the circumstances. At her exhaustion, her pain, her weakness. I spoke to her very harshly, exhorting her on. The others also helped, speaking to her, supporting her, helping her walk.

Several times we heard dogs barking in the distance. At those times, Mr Fiala would disappear, returning a short time later. The dogs were quiet. These times allowed us to rest, so they were welcomed. At one time, I remember passing a guard barracks within twenty feet. The lights were bright inside, the smoke pouring out of the chimney. The warmth and envisioned comfort inside were inviting. But we trudged on.

It was at this time I began to understand, that this mysterious Mr Fiala had arrangements with at least some of the guards. There is no other explanation for the ease of our passage so close to them.

At one point, we had to cross a brook. It was not the first one, nor the last one. But all the others were narrow and shallow trickles we could step over. This one was over five feet wide. A fallen tree stretched across, that was to be our bridge. With some difficulty we crossed over, several of us falling in. Fortunately, the brook was not very deep. But it was deep enough to soak the edges of my long coat. In a short time the water had frozen, creating two large chunks of ice which mercilessly and continuously beat against my legs. So, the rest of the journey, I had two companions. I tried to break the ice off, but the water had so soaked into the woolen material, I could not get rid of it.

I am sure that these few words cannot adequately describe the hardship of the journey. Nor do I believe that anyone reading it can fully understand the fear, the fatigue, the lethargic feeling of surrender, the cold, the hunger and all the other emotions I - and the others - had experienced.

Not knowing where we were or where we were going, how far we came and how much farther we needed to go, also added to the general feeling of almost hopelessness.

For fifteen hours and seven minutes we walked, crawled, fell, got up and walked again. Up the hills, down the hills. Through the brush and around it. Across the brooks and over fallen trees. Hour after hour, minute after minute. Step by step, always closer to the imagined dream, farther away from the restraints behind us.

The morning was arriving. It made the walking a bit easier, but it also made Mr Fiala nervous. He kept urging us onward, driving the pace faster and faster. In the distance we could see daylight and open fields. Freedom!

We stopped at the edge of the woods. About three hundred yards ahead of us was another brook. Or a small river. It was good ten feet wide. But, we were assured, very shallow, barely three inches deep. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the journey. The brook formed the boundaries between the Czech Republic and West Germany. Once we were across that river, we were safe. This was the place where the actress I mentioned earlier, Olga Scheinflugová, was captured.

Mr Fiala issued his last directions.

"Once I give you the word, run!", Mr Fiala said. "Do not stop for any reason until you cross that river. If anyone calls to you to ‘Halt!’, don’t! On the other side of the river, there is a road. Turn left on it and follow it about a half-mile you will come to a town. That is Weidhause, a German town. The American patrols will most likely find you there".

And with that, he turned around and disappeared into the woods. Much later we had found out, he carried information back to the Communist government, and for that service was allowed to take a certain number of people out, collecting money for that service. He was not anxious to meet the Americans, although, apparently, he worked for them, too. It seems that either he took out someone the government did not want taken out, or the information he supplied was not good enough. At any rate, he was caught crossing the border, and hanged.

With renewed strength, we ran. At any moment I expected a shout, a rifle shot, a patrol to appear. None of that materialized. Hand in hand, Mother and I splashed through the brook, no longer caring the water was cold, and that it will freeze around our feet. We gained the road, and marched into the village of Weidhause. Stopping at the first house, we asked the one thing we needed most, "Wasser, bitte!". Water, please.

Shortly, the American patrol pulled up, followed by three empty jeeps, most likely summoned by the villagers, who gave us the water we needed, but otherwise remained silent.

We were in American hands. And, we were under arrest. Illegal crossing of the borders was a crime. The punishment, a twenty-four hour stay on the American post, being fed ham and cheese and eggs and steaks and bread and whole milk and ... I don’t remember what all we ate.

January 22, 1952, we were pigging out on - what appeared to be bottomless - plates of food. After the meal, those who did smoke, were offered American cigarettes. To a smoker of the nineteen fifties, American cigarettes were equivalent of dying and entering the Heavens.

I suggested to Mother that being a week short of my sixteenth birthday and having just accomplished a Herculean task, I was entitled to smoke. After some hesitation, she agreed. I had my first cigarette. Pall Mall. It was good!

We were, of course, given dry clothing before the meal, so, now, dry, warm, stomachs stuffed, puffing away on a cigarette, we were more than content. We were happy. We were free. We were on the first step of a long journey that would take us to worlds unknown, adventures unimaginable, life so totally different from that which we had known, we could not even dream what it would be like.

I do not remember dreaming. But I slept. We all slept.

The following morning, our "jail sentence" over, we were transported to a refugee camp, Valka Lager. This was a center processing camp for the many refugees streaming into West Germany. Those who had places prearranged, only stayed one day. Some, not so fortunate, stayed for days, weeks, months, until able to migrate to one of the countries which opened its doors to this large mass of escapees.

Mother and I did not even have to stay a day, as Father was waiting for us, having had all the paper work done prior to our arrival. The welcome was warm. We piled into a Volkswagon which Father had bought, driven by a friend of the family, Milan Pelc, and headed for Munich, several hours down the Autobahn, the German speedway. Mother already had a job with RFE awaiting her, and I was to work as a freelance, while attending school.

Munich. My new home. In a strange country, speaking in a strange tongue. What little German I had learned in the three years of elementary school had evaporated, save for few phrases.

It was to be a new beginning in more ways then one.

What lies ahead of me, I wondered. Will I make new friends? Will we make our home here? How welcomed will I be? The German occupation and the end of the war was not that far in the past, a mere seven years. Still enough memories, even in the young people’s minds. After all, I remembered!

I remember a science fiction movie, where a ship lands on a planet, unknown and unexplored, far away from the origin of the space ship. I recall how gingerly the people of the space ship stepped onto the new planet.

And, so did I. I gingerly stepped off the spaceship, Volkswagon, onto a new planet.

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