It was Sunday and the day was lovely. As we walked cautiously under the green branches of the fir trees, I tried to engrave into my memory the beautiful sceneries of our country, for I knew I would not see them again for years, maybe never. After about an hour’s walking, we held our breath, having seen from a distance the hostile poster: DO NOT ENTER – BORDER ZONE. Crossing the invisible line, we knew that two chances were left: freedom behind the 10 miles distant borders, or death from a border policeman’s gun.

 

The map told us that we had to cross three roads. The first two roads were desolate and the rank grass growing in the middle was the sign that there had been no traffic on them for a long time. The third road was a problem. The police were using it for their regular watch drives and the forest turned thinner as we were approaching it. Fortunately, there was a narrow wedge of old, big trees, close to the road, and there we headed. Before we could reach it, we had to cross a shallow brook from where we could see a piece of the road. Hearing no sounds of life, we leaned our bicycles against the trees and I started to take off my shoes when I heard: “Hide, fast!” I tried to hide myself in the nearest tree, but was not fast enough. My heart stopped beating – there on the road in the full sunshine, a car loaded with armed policemen was silently passing. Oh, Providence: their field glasses searching in the woods were by chance turned to the other side. After the terrible tension of those few seconds, we had to act fast, because now the road would probably be empty for a while. Having hurriedly crossed the fatal road, I nearly collapsed and we had to take a short rest.

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Now the hardest part of the journey was waiting for us, a steep hill full of large stones covered with moss. Carrying the precious bicycle on my left arm, I was holding on to the slippery stones and roots with my right hand, unconsciously using my climber’s experience. The hill was endless and as I stumbled up, I repeated to myself: “Hold out, hold out. You must hold out.”

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Having finally reached the top of the hill, we knew that the border was near now. We started off on a narrow deer path when I distinctly heard barking from that direction. The border watch with their dogs! We quickly turned back, keeping to the south for a while, then turned sharply to the west and after a while we passed an old landmark with DB (Deutschland, Bayern) on the other side. After about 3 miles, we finally felt safe enough, threw ourselves against the ground and relaxed.

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We made it! We were safe, we were free! The communist hell was behind us! Whatever hardship might expect us, it was better than the constant, terrible fear in which we lived days and nights. This was a light air of a free world and we breathed it very deep.

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After two days spent with German and American authorities, we started a definitely “new life” in a German refugee camp near Nuremberg. We were grateful for freedom, the roof over our heads and food.

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​​“You better make your room more comfortable,” the block leader of our barrack remarked as he gave us our beds, lightbulb, soap and a few other necessities.

“Oh, we will not stay here very long,” my husband assured him. “We want to emigrate as soon as we can.”

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“The trouble is that it is not a matter of merely wanting,” he said with a bitter smile, “but… oh, well,” he waved his hand, “you will find out for yourselves.”

The next day, we rushed with eagerness toward the block where the friendly inscription INTERNATIONAL REFUGEE ORGANIZATION seemed to hide the fulfillment of our hopes.

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The bright sunshine outdoors turned grey as we walked silently and slowly back to our room. What we found out looked quite hopeless: we had come too late, a few months after the deadline which was set as IRO funds were rather limited. Nobody will pay for our emigration voyage; we can’t get to any country. There was an unspoken question in our silence: “Now what shall we do?” Yes, we were lucky to have escaped from the communist hell and we were safe and free. But we can’t stay in a refugee camp in overcrowded Germany for months or maybe even years without any work, clothes and money, sinking deeper and deeper under the circumstances. No, by all means we must do something to get out. After this was set clear, we felt a little easier. “After all,” we tried to comfort one another, “we are young and healthy and we are not afraid of hard work. We might get some work here in Germany.”

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Days went by and we learned that there were millions of unemployed Germans and work scarce even for them, let alone the unwelcomed refugees. There were no organizations willing to lend us money for our voyage, for which we could not blame anybody. The oppressive atmosphere of this camp soon began to work on us. The inhabitants formed a varied mixture: people who for different reasons could not emigrate: old, sick, or families with too many children. Six months, 1 year, 2-3 years they had spent in the wooden barracks of the camp. Once worthy, respectable citizens of their countries, now Displaced Persons. Clothed in old rags, barefooted, demoralized, bitter, desperate. Others who, with a roof overhead and enough to eat, did not seem to want more from life. Communist spies of all countries. Prostitutes. Tramps. People who, under the protective coat of “Political Refugee,” hid dangerous crimes of their previous life. The monthly allowance of 6 DM (= $1.40) was usually spent the same day in a little camp/inn for liquor. The police were called nearly every night.

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Two weeks after our arrival in the camp, our neighbor hurriedly came to our room and with popped eyes, whispered with a changing voice: “I’ll tell you what I have found out today; something is going on here… there is an agent in the camp, looking for experts for the New Zealand government. Just imagine: New Zealand! We must find him by all means before it is too late. The government will pay for the voyage.”

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The feverish searching led us finally to a comparatively nice, large room, where a group of those happy ones, who were already accepted, told us that it was probably too late for any application, but if we wanted to talk to the agent, he was supposed to come at eight that evening.

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Long before eight we were waiting, eager and excited. After eight a slim, dark man of about thirty years entered the room quietly. He looked very tired and nobody spoke for a while. Then one of the men said: “Well, here is a young man who thinks you might be interested in him, Mr. Hradek.”

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Mr. Hradek turned his dark eyes on us. My husband introduced himself. “What is your trade?” “Chemistry, sir.” “That sounds good. We need somebody in this field. Of course, it does not depend on me, you understand. There is not much time left. In fact, it may be too late. But we will try it. Now, write a brief application for both you and your wife, and I will take it with me tonight.”

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We hardly heard the end, rushed “home,” got two precious pieces of paper and made what we thought was the best picture of our abilities.

That night we did not sleep at all.

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Next evening we were soon at the place again, nervous, our hope rising and falling. Then finally, the words came that sounded like angels’ music to our ears: “You were lucky – accepted.” I remember that I could not help jumping and clapping my hands and I thought I would go crazy and I pinched my arm thoroughly to be sure that it was not a nice dream and we all laughed happily.

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That night – again – we did not sleep, making plans for our future which was promising so much. We will leave the camp! We will live in one of the best countries of the world! We will have nice work, we will build a new home, a new start to a wonderful life!

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This happened May 31 and the next days were full of sunshine, best humor and a rush of preparations, and I was terribly happy. Our departure from Hamburg was set for June 14. We were to leave the camp on June 9, by train.

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One evening my husband came with a troubled face: a good friend of ours warned him very seriously against the New Zealand action.

All at once, there were signs that awoke our suspicion: why didn’t we get our passports? Did anybody of the group know other authorities than Mr. Hradek? In fact, we didn’t see a single piece of legal paper. All we knew was what he told us. But why shouldn’t we believe him and what would be the purpose of lying? No, that is just bad gossip, that’s all. But what if not? Our hearts sank and I felt shivering all over my body.

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Next day, our departure was postponed; then again and again. Every day meant a terrible nervous strain, but nobody dared express our fear in order not to hurt Mr. Hradek’s feelings.

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Finally, our means of transportation from Nuremberg to Hamburg changed from a train to a bus! The look at the map told us that the proposed way nearly hit the border of the Russian zone of Germany. A terrible suspicion overwhelmed us.

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That afternoon my husband was thinking hard for a while: “I do not like that business. Something must be done and quickly. I am going to find out by myself.”

“How could you?”

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“If what Mr. Hradek says is true, our passports must now be at the consulate in Frankfurt and I am going to ask there.”

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“How could you get there? It is nearly 200 miles from here and you know that we don’t have a single penny.”

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“We have got our bicycles. We can get food for two days from the camp kitchen. And remember our friends are living in Karlsruhe, which is about 100 miles from Frankfurt. It is a roundabout, but we might at least spend one night under the roof. This will do it and I am going to leave right now and I wish you would go with me.”

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For a while I was not very pleased with this idea, for it seemed too audacious. Our bicycles were in bad shape. Our old sports suits carried the marks of the dense border woods, in spite of all my mending. We had no money at all, having spent the allowance for postmarks, passport pictures and a sole for my right shoe. But, knowing my husband, I was sure he was going to make it, so I decided to join him.

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We took our provisions, which consisted of a loaf of bread, a piece of butter and a piece of sausage, and set off on the adventurous journey. We tried to speed up our trip by stopping trucks. That first evening we were pretty lucky. At midnight we were unloaded in a nice, quiet town. It was very dark and I felt very tired and desperate. Here were people living behind the friendly lighted windows in the safety of their homes, and we, who once were happy in our home, were walking through the strange darkness of the unknown town, lonely, unhappy and awfully homesick. After a town policeman, who took us without any doubt for some dangerous tramps, was very cross with us, I was near crying. We did not try to explain anything to him. Where should we start and who would believe it?

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Asking somebody for night accommodation was out of the question. At one o’clock, we went off the road and crawled in the camp blanket under the bushes for a short rest. A dense rain awoke us at 3:30 and we got up, stretched our cold limbs and out on the road again.

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At about eleven o’clock, my husband’s bicycle was finished after the front tire had blown out. Now if the truck drivers won’t have mercy, what shall we do? Our provisions disappeared and here we were, about 80 miles from the camp, having not a penny and knowing nobody. God bless the good-hearted fellows who helped us farther.

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Finally we arrived at Karlsruhe toward the evening, dirty, hungry and tired, and found our friends at home. What a relief. The welcome was heartful. How we enjoyed the luxury of the bathroom, the white tablecloth on the dining room table, the cozy corner where we lifted our glasses after dinner for a long chat.

It was decided that I would stay with them while my husband would find out about our strange story in Frankfurt.

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The early sunshine of the next morning found him on the road to Frankfurt, waving to the passing cars. It was a hard day, but in the evening, he was in Frankfurt. Next morning he rushed to the consulate. There his fears proved to be true: nobody had ever heard of any similar scheme. Emigration to New Zealand was very restricted  and difficult and certainly not for refugees. (Some months later, we learned that Mr. Hradek had a fine business selling political refugees back to where they had escaped from, and our emigration to New Zealand would have ended in Siberia.)

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All hopes gone, more desperate and disgusted, he started the unpleasant way back to bring me the bad news. A car took him to Heidelberg. There he was standing, tired, his old sport suit already dirty, his blue eyes turning grey with grief. Hundreds of cars passed by, but none stopped. Hours went by and the cars seemed to melt in one continuing row on the road.

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At about half past 3, a small English car stopped at the nearby gas station. A couple came out and tried to explain something to the gas station man, who apparently did not understand a single word. Watching them for a while, my husband came slowly closer and offered to interpret. It turned out that they needed coupons for gasoline, which they could obtain in the bank of Mannheim.

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Now my husband asked the couple to give him a ride. They looked uneasy for a minute but then nodded. He said his name and crawled onto the back seat.

“Do you need coupons for gasoline here?” the gentleman asked him.

“I do not know. I just recently came to this country.”

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“Where from?”

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“Czechoslovakia.”

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The American couple got interested. They wanted to know about the communism, about the former president Beneš, about Jan Masaryk, the Church, refugees, the Nazi time, our attitude toward the USA, Roosevelt, the US Army, etc. Everything interested them and my husband was surprised by their thorough knowledge.

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The conversation, however, turned to our personal affairs. The couple on the front seat listened carefully as he tried to explain our complicated situation. The gentleman watched him with increasing interest in the back mirror, giving him more and more questions. In the bank of Mannheim they bought their coupons and went on their way. The Americans were headed for Stuttgart, and Karlsruhe is located about 2 miles from this highway.

“Now what are you going to do?” asked Mr. Brown.

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“I do not know. There do not seem many chances left.”

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“How would you like to emigrate to the US?”

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“It would be a dream, but we can’t. First, we have nobody to sponsor us. Second, we do not have money to pay for the journey.”

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“Don’t you have any relatives there?”

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“Unfortunately, we do not.”

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“What about friends?”

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“Not a single one.”

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“Well – you have got a sponsor,” Mr. Brown said after a minute’s silence. “He is sitting right here,” he added, smiling with a corner of his mouth.

“Sir… why… how… well, err… you do not know me and you do not know if what I told you is true,” my husband stammered politely and thought to himself: “Not very nice of him to play such jokes with me.”

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“Well, here,” the gentleman said with merry eyes, “you told me that your wife was staying in Karlsruhe with your friends. Let’s go and see her. If she tells me the same as you did, it will be sufficient proof for me,” he added triumphantly.

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Meanwhile, I was waiting impatiently for my husband’s return, enjoying the everyday life of our friends’ family with the painful back-thought that in two or three days we would have to leave for the camp. How wonderful it was to go shopping, preparing the meals, getting the youngsters off to school, to live at least for a while the blessed everyday life in the safe frame of a warm home.

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It was Friday afternoon at about five o’clock and my friend was fixing one of her dresses on me, when the bell rang on the front door. Sure that it was my husband, I rushed with the dress full of pins to the door. There he stood with an unknown man, who simply introduced himself as Mr. Brown. Having quickly changed my dress, I came to the dining room, where they were sitting. My husband disappeared and in a minute he came back with Mrs. Brown. I certainly did not understand even a little bit of it.

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Two pairs of the kindest eyes penetrated deep into mine, when I, quite puzzled, tried my best to answer their questions.

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“Well, here,” said Mr. Brown with a definite smile, “as I told your husband, I thought you two might like to come over to the US and we would sponsor you.”

For a while I was only able to stare.

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“Too good to be true,” I finally managed to say, and I had a terrible confusion in my poor head. And I did not believe it.

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“But nobody will pay for our voyage,” my husband objected, who had probably recovered his senses a little.

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“If nobody does, I will take care of that,” said the American.

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“Far too much,” I thought.

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“Do you know that you will have to guarantee for five years for us – completely unknown people?” my husband tried again.

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“Do not worry. I do know. And I know you enough to do it. And I am not afraid.”

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Then the peculiar couple gave us their home address and the temporary one in England and promised to write. Outside, before they departed, Mrs. Brown gave me a big bag and a box of candy. I stood watching the departing car and I could not put my thoughts together.

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The paper with the addresses, a beautiful yellow dress which was in the bag, the box of candy and some money were the witnesses that those people from the distant country were real and not magicians from a beautiful dream.

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The happy end? Yes, after many a struggle, in March 1952 at the railway station of a nice country town in the open arms of the best sponsors of the world.​​​

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