Crossing Frontiers

Chapter Five

1.      A  dangerous journey home

The Russian guard on duty at the gate is dozing. Quietly we jump over the fence, which encloses the school building and yard. He does not hear us.

For four months, the school has been hospital and a kind of home for us ex soldiers. Here I was reunited with my sister, here my head wound healed and my shattered shoulder was treated. It was a temporary haven of rest after the terror of war and the dangers of front combat. Now I am leaving all this.

Walking along the road, we have to be on the lookout constantly because the Russians imposed a curfew until 8:00 h and they are known for shooting first and asking questions later. We arrive without incident at the agreed upon place. It is five in the morning. After a few minutes, we hear steps on the gravel path. Is it our contact person or a Russian patrol, we wonder? We hide behind a bush and see a single person approach. It must be the railway man who had promised to let us into the station. He greets us briefly pulls out his keys and opens the hidden gate to the freight train compound. He points to the little bridge in the background and says, “Cross that bridge, it leads to the main station. The train will leave in about 20 minutes. Good Luck!” He locks the gate behind us and is gone. We worm our way between the freight cars to the bridge and there we see it in tall letters, Schwerin Hauptbahnhof. The station is heavily guarded, only occupation troops and personnel with special passes are allowed inside. We watch what is going on and wait in hiding until two minutes before departure. Then we climb from the backside into an empty compartment. Quietly we sit down on the back bench and the train moves out. The sun has not come up yet, so it is still dark but promises to become a beautiful day. At the next station the conductor comes in, points his flashlight at us and asks politely “Your tickets and permits please”. We have neither one. “How did you get into the train?” We tell him, “An ‘angel’ opened the gate for us and let us in, he had compassion on us”. I tell him that I am looking for my sick mother in the occupied territory. He softens a little but replies” Do you know that when the authorities find out about this I will lose my job and could be arrested?”

 Not many people are traveling that early. After a while, he comes back and tells us that the second station from here, Ludwigslust, is the old border between the Russian and British Zones and all passengers have to leave the train; it will be searched and the GPU, the Russian secret police, will nab you. He suggests that we leave a station before, walk across the border and join the train again afterwards.

When the train stops, we disembark and start walking. The sun has just come out, it is getting warmer and our bags are light. We wear all the clothing we own. For me it means a pair of air force pants and a somewhat remodeled black tank soldier’s uniform jacket. On top, I wear blue mechanics overalls which my sister had organized for me in order to hide my uniform. In our bags we have a change of underwear and some food.

After half an hour’s march, we meet an older woman coming out of her house. We ask her how to get to the border. She looks us over, than takes us to the back of her yard and points at a man in the distance. “You see that man working there, the border runs at the end of his field”. She shows us the best way to get to him and adds, “Be careful! The Russians are controlling the border” We sneak up to the farmer and ask if he needs help with the potato harvest. “No thanks,” he says, “You better get out of here fast and don’t put me in danger”. We lie down in the furrows and tell him our real reason. His attitude changes and he gives us good advice. “That dirt road about 150 m down is controlled every 10 min. by Russian patrols. If the first one disappears behind that hill you have about 5 min. before the next one comes up”. We observe the procedure from our hiding place for a while and go into action. We crawl along the furrows to the road, then creep over it into the woods on the other side and disappear behind the bushes. The crackling of twigs under our feet must have alerted the coming guards; we hear “Stoi, Stoi”, and two shots are fired in our direction. We stop and listen. Nothing happens; carefully we walk on for a while until we come to a building. Is this the Russian guardhouse we wonder? We observe it from our cover and find nothing unusual. I gather my courage and approach it from the back, Georg stays behind and waits. The farmer, who answers the door, tells us that we are safe here. I wave Georg to come and the startled farmer shows us the road to the next railway station.