FLIGHT ON THE WINGS OF FEAR
 

     In the late summer of 1947, the great decision was made.  My uncle and aunt (Michael and Justina Brandt) decided to leave our family still living, our home and our country and escape into a better world.  Another decision resulted in my part of the journey.  They agreed to take me along and provide for and guide me as long as necessary.   We left with very little to call our own, only what our backs could carry.  For the last time, we looked around the house, built with love and hard work; the family, living and dead; the neighbors and friends with whom we went through a great deal and Gakowa itself, which was built by people just like us, driven from homes by persecution.  Would we be able to build another Gakowa? I doubt it, for we are sown all over the world, while too many gave their lives in the fight to preserve our Gakowa.

Knowing only too well that we wouldn't find "honey and roses" in Germany made it difficult to decide to leave the birthplace.  There is something clinging to the place you call "home".  Even though it looked like a herd of bulls went over it, you can still call it "home".  But to go into far away countries would mean making ourselves refugees and belonging to no country.

It was hard, too, to leave the last things that were kept from destruction because we hid them from the partisans.  The hope of finding my cousin, Tobias Brandt, who was still in Russia, we thought, made it a driving ambition and washed away some of the reluctance to leave.

Prisoners from the USSR came into Germany every week, sick and half-starved.  That was the reason they were allowed to leave Russia.  The state had no more profit from them.

One night in August, 1947, a group of people gathered in one of the houses on the edge of town, with bundles of their last possessions on their backs.  We were among those that night.

The parting was difficult and heartbreaking because we could only tell our immediate family for fear of being exposed.  As I took leave of my little sister, who was only six years old at the time, the thought crossed my mind that I might never see her again.  She was to stay with our other aunt and uncle, Anton and Barbara Findeis.  She understood very little of what was going on.  The realization of seeing everything for the last time comes only after being away for awhile.

Sitting in the dark that night, -- waiting and watching  for the right moment to make our escape, I was very sad.  It meant never coming back to our homes and our town.

There were approximately one hundred people and two guides to lead us into freedom.  At 1:00 A.M> August 20th, 1947, at the precise time of the changing of the guards at the border, we made our way through fields of corn towards the heavily guarded border.  Like a human caravan, winding forward, we went through the night, daring not to talk, nor to think of the heavy load on our backs.

The fields of corn, with the cobs fighting us as we wound down its lanes, were our protection of being seen.  Then there were untilled acres that made our way hard, due to weeds and rocks.  People began to tire from overloaded bundles and proceeded to lighten their burden by discarding some of their last possessions.  As we came closer to the border, knees started to shake and nerves became tense.  What if they should catch us?? The Lord only knows the consequences.

The signal of silence warned us that we were on the border.  The first twenty people crossed, then a rifle shot stopped our heartbeats and turned the blood to ice.  We were still in enemy territory and now prisoners of the border patrol.  That shot had brought out a number of guards and prevented any measures of bargaining or bribery.  Shortly after our capture, dawn began to break and gave birth to a hot and stiffling summer day.  A little reluctant but helpless, we marched toward the patrol headquarters and were ordered to find a place among the large group already captured that night.  While the dew produced a little cool air, our bundles got a thorough examination and we were lightened of any valuables.  The first thing those partisans always did was to take -- just take and never give.

As the sun grew hotter, and no move was made to transport us back to camp, we began to feel a little easier.  Then a partisan came and gave us a lecture.  He explained that they were going to let us go across the border the following night but he urged us to be sure and go into the "Russian Zone", because that's the place where we will be rich and happy.  After that ridiculous statement, most of us laughed on the inside and showed much interest on the outside.  We spent the entire day in the treeless yard, victims of a blistering hot August sun.  Toward the evening, we bundled up, again to start our journey into new horizons.  We still don't know why the partisans let us go that day.  Maybe they just wanted to get rid of us.

Once safely across the border, we found ourselves in Hungary.  The rest of the night we spent in a farmer's haystack just resting.  Most of the people broke  away from the group and each went their own way.  Four families including ourselves, all natives of Gakowa, decided to travel together.   It was Stefan and Appolonia Brandt (my grandfather's brother) Stefan and Barbara Hirn, Theresia Sehn and her granddaughter Julianna and us.

As soon as day broke again, we exchanged some clothes for services from the farmer.  He agreed to load our possessions and the older people and children into his wagon and show us on our way.  My uncle became quite ill; he suffered from stomach ulcers.  Walking made matters only worse.

We traveled from one Hungarian town to another, always fearing the enemy behind us.  The fact that thousands of refugees roamed the roads of Hungary, made it almost impossible to get any form of transportation vehicles.  So we waited and prayed in a strange country far from home.  Finally the news came to prepare for the continuing journey.  A truck took us to a railroad station, where we took a train, all the while with no passport or any papers.  When we arrived at the third town before the Austrian border, everyone without a passport had to get out.  Here we were again without any knowledge of which way to go and no transportation.  Then we heard that there was a station for refugees, where we would be properly directed.  Waiting for our turn, each person was called into a private room.  Again our bundles were thoroughly checked and lightened when some articles appealed to the inspector.  All our money was confiscated.  Of course, by that time we had learned to outwit the inspectors and carefully hid part of our valuables.  In return for the currency, horse-drawn wagons were provided for our journey up to the Austrian border.  Once again, baggage, old folks and children had the privilege of riding on the wagon, while all the others walked.  We arrived at the border in darkness and to our surprise the Austrian border patrol was waiting for us with trucks.  After sunshine comes the rain and what was to come, was a cloudburst.

The trucks took us to a large camp where thousands of people like us, housed while waiting for dismissal to go freely into Austria.  We, however, did not plan on staying, as we intended to go to Germany.  After registration, permission to carry on our journey was received joyfully by all of us.  Again, we hired a wagon to make our way more swift.

The highways and by-ways were filled with people and often looked like a market place.  The possibility for speedy transit and comfortable facilities were scarce.  Native farmers gained considerable wealth through hungry passers-by, who were ready to trade their best for food and a night's stay.

The most desired and sought-after men, were the guides who lead the stranger through the dangerous spots.  These places refer to the border, which divided Austria into Russian and American Zones.  We occupied the Russian zone at the crossing from Hungary and desired to leave it as soon as possible.  To do this in a reasonably safe way, we engaged such a guide.  The roads leading to the border region lead us through fields and forests, along rivers and lakes.  The scenery  was beautiful.  The Danube ebbs its waters through the most part of Austria and guests on the outskirts of Vienna.  Towering forests are the pride of the Tiroler woodchoppers.

In time of peace, such an excursion as ours would have proved expensive as well as improbable.  Now that the country was infested by Communism and the enemy's troops presented entry into the American zone, the chances of our enjoying scenic beauty were very slim.  The seed of nature, which Gad sowed on that land, enriching its soil with beauty and fertility, was forced to make room for the weeds of Communism.  It marred not only nature, itself, but led the minds of men away from the finer things and destroyed the flame of burning pride.  Communists themselves are only so in name and word, as they do not practice what they preach.  One of their most often used promises is: "Share everything -- and share alike."  Were it true, another Golden Rule would have been born.  A rule, that would be a moral, social and policital asset.  They call sharing -- "taking the biggest part for themselves. "  The poor worker shares a small dividend of the profits, while the boss lives in luxury.

As I recall, in the streets of Austria, we hired a truck which brought us to Vienna.  Vienna, the City of music and romance was a sad disappointment to our expectations.  Bombs had destroyed its edifices and ruined transportation facilities.  The opera house, where once the great masters  performed, lacked performers and audiences.  People found time for nothing else but to make a meager living and to rebuild a once magnificent city.

Our way from there became more hazardous because, due to the nearness of the border, Russian soldiers were found in many transportation vehicles.  As refugees, we were the easiest thing to recognize, inasmuch as baggage as well as frightened looks cast suspicion upon us.  That was the reason for our fear, when we rode a public bus, and two Russian soldiers were on it.  For once luck prevailed and the soldiers left the bus one station ahead of us.  That bus took us very close to the border, so close that we could hear the voices of the patrol.  We had to leave the bus at the end station and camp outside an old shack for the night.  Knowing full well that daylight would reveal our presence, several men posted themselves on the main road in order to ask any passing vehicle for a ride.  Luckily we got one in time as the rooster began to announce a new day.

A pine forest was our destination in which our day was spent in the companionship of a drizzling rain.  I remember that night as our hardest struggle in the battle for freedom.

The fallen pine needles stuck to us when the rain came down and our baggage became wet and heavy.  Our feet became soaked and chilled, while our bodies hungered for hot food.  Knowing no other way out, we tore a bed sheet to pieces and wrapped it around our feet.  We could hardly afford to eat and sleep and we did not want to get sick from this miserable weather.

As we waited for darkness to come, the only visitor was the rain, a constant companion, maybe a friend who stayed by our side.  Being cloudy and overcast, the day was shortened earlier than usual.  We knew now was the time to be strong and fearless as we followed the guide in silent desperation.  The roads that we used were muddy and swayed along the forest.

Whoever fixed the boundary zones knew what they were doing for the surrounding area was very hilly.  We never knew exactly where the patrol kept their watch because they changed their positions regularly.  We would struggle up a sizable hill, groping in the darkness to find our way, when the signal was given to retreat.  Back down we slid sometimes on our stomach if it helped matters any, not caring how dirty and filthy we looked.  This happened repeatedly all night long, sharpening the nerves as each time we almost reached our ultimate goal, but were prevented to attain it by the approaching patrol.  Finally, after many tries, we decided to take the most dangerous road.  First it took us up a steep hill which was as slippery from the fallen rain as a bar of wet soap.  We tried to hold ourselves on the grass and weeds, but most of us had our hands full of baggage.  If you were lucky enough to get a few feet up the menacing barrier, a slip of either hand or foot would result in a ride back down on your stomach.  We knew just one thing, though, we had to get up that hill and fast.

As if Lady Luck had not frowned upon us enough, our troubles never seemed to end.  As we finally reached the top, a fence of barbed wire dared us to pass.  The men, therefore, forced a considerable loop through which our bodies as well as the bags would pass.  Our clothes were torn while we hurried and our skin ruptured from the fence.

As we slipped through the fence, a broad road lay before us which we had to cross to reach the opposite side.  The flaw in that mission was the fact that a mill was nearby, flooding its lights upon the street.  The whole area was bright and our shadows would be seen.  Again, when there is no other way out, a strong determination keeps you going.  Situations like those helped you to make up your mind fast and do it for everyone's good.

We stalled no longer and moves swiftly, like a herd of deer running from the hunter.
  After all of us had crossed the lighted area, the crisis was over.  Our guides took us to a nearby farmhouse that had a large barn where we could all stay and rest through the night.

Once again, a mission was accomplished.  We had succeeded triumphantly in the hardest of trials, the most dangerous border.  Three times had we become frightened and nervous, in fact, just plain scared, and we came out successful.  Now, there was one more barrier to overcome, the border which separated Austria and Germany.  How complicated and dangerous it was, we did not know but we hoped for the best.  For all we knew, we might have trodden on the same path that our ancestors followed in search for a new home.  They must have endured the hardships and disappointments that met us on the way.  They must have wondered where their new home would be and how they would find it.

Their fate had spun a century of prosperity and peace, then the thread of harmony was cut by our enemies.  We were on the same road to find what we lost, -- a home, a country, a right to be free.

The following morning our alarm clock -- the sun-- signaled our departure.  As so many times before, we hung the knapsacks  on our backs and again marched on.  Just being in the American zone, though, steadied our nerves and we felt a sense of protection.

In Linz, Austria, we could finally continue our journey by train.  Our destination was Ludwigsburg, Germany, where some  relatives lived.

In Salzburg, which stands lofty and proud among its castles, we again left the train to start our last crossing by foot.  Salzburg lies in the northwestern part of Austria.  It is named after the river "Salzach", which gracefully ebbs its way through the city and is a landmark pointing the way to Germany.  This time we had no guide to lead the right way - only the Salzach.  We followed its banks through the woods.  We were cautioned to beware of treehouses which the border patrol used to trap the illegal travelers.

In the woods, steep hills confronted us making it impossible for my uncle and another lady, who were both ill, to climb any higher.  We had to find another way.  It was daylight.  Our way in the dark could only have lead us to confusion and finally loss of our sense of direction.

It was decided to continue to follow the Salzach which would bring us into Germany.  The thought of wading to the other side, which was part of Germany, lingered only for a while, because the strong current of the river would have become master with the sick and the children.  So we walked along the murmuring waters of our new found friend.  A milestone, resting on the edge of the forest, marked the border.  At that point, we crossed the last of the barriers and were free.

As the afternoon sun sank behind  the hills, the tall trees which had protected us, whispered a friendly welcome.  Trees had been our protection during the days and nights from our enemy as well as from the foes of nature.  The fact that our ancestors came from Alsace/Lottringen in the Black Forest, a region covered mostly with tall pines and evergreens, might account for the mututal fondness.  A walk through the woods on a fall day should be a requirement for every living being.

We began to breathe easier and felt as though we just conquered an army.  Our chances of a safe crossing were shadowed by an approaching traveler riding a bicyle.  We soon found ourselves in the company of a private detective, who questioned our coming and going.  As soon as we told him of our Yugoslavian background, we were free to go.  The reason for this was that citizens of Hungary were prohibited in Germany, thus detectives roamed the border area,

A bridge that crossed over the Salzach lead us into a small village where we managed to get transportation to Berchtesgarden.  We arrived there in the late evening and found shelter on the hard floors of a camp surrounding  the railroad station.

The August nights in the mountain villages become quite chilly and we were cold on the wooden floors of the barracks.  Rest had not come to us since we left home and our bodies ached for cleanliness, hot food and some rest.
We still worried about our future in this new country.

The morning fog hung like a curtain before  the sun and dulled the oncoming day.  Restlessness and a determination to move on urged us into the waiting room of the railroad station.  The train that we boarded took us to Munich.  On the trip, which stretched about 100 miles, we experienced the fact that we were strangers; not so much in appearance and language, but in our rights.

During that time, ration cards enabled the Germans to buy food and that was the only way.  We, of course, possessed no such privileges, - yet.  All we had was an old loaf of bread, dried and unappetizing and some cheese in the same condition.  When we saw others eat fresh fruits and vegetables, our left-overs didn't seem edible.  Those ration cards did not suffice in the least as far as meat, sugar and bread was concerned, but Germany has a tremendous amount of fruit trees as well as home grown vegetables, which helped fill our empty stomachs.

About noon on August 31, 1947, our train arrived in Munich where we had to transfer to reach our destination.  Half of our group left us and stayed in the famous beer city; another family and ourselves boarded a later train headed for Ludwigsburg.

A sad farewell and a rain of good wishes parted us.  We would certainly never break that bond which held us together in our struggles.  Mutual memories of the perilous journey gave us a strong relationship and if we ever all meet again, it will provide tears and happiness as we won our "battle of the borders."

While we covered miles of railroad tracks, in the fields around us, farmers yielded fruits of their labor -- it was harvest time.  Glorious memories filled us with homesickness as we recalled our own fields once a  petal of the blooming rose - the Batschka; now lay-wasted under the barbaric hand of communism.  When the sceptre of justice and truth strikes, led by strong and God-fearing men, the ship of tyranny shall be sunk.

Moving  closer to our destination, we also saw an increasing amount of industry, which was already rebuilt after the terrible bombings of a few years back.  Coming from farm country and seeing little of big city life naturally resulted in our amazement.  Smoking chimneys crowned the numerous factories coming into sight, and revealed to us that we were arriving in Stuttgart.  Changing into a local train, the last ten miles brought  us to Ludwigsburg, - our final destination.

Our goal was achieved but now we had to earn our right to stay in Germany.  Thus another camp was our home for nearly two months.

A few days after our arrival in Ludwigsburg, a miracle happened that proved that not even the hardest battles are fought in vain.  An acquaintance who happened to be in Ulm, a camp where refugees from everywhere had to go through, saw my cousin who had returned from the Russian labor camp.  Joyfully she announced the almost unbelieveable news.  We decided to go to Ulm immediately to find him.

I say it was a miracle because too many people failed to return just like my father, whose whereabouts are still unknown.  Never since the Fall of 1944 have we had any word from him.  He will always haunt my conscience and there is always hope of his possible return.  Did he give his life in battle and now lies in a strange country; his grave bare without honor and sympathy from his family.  If so, he undoubtedly is with my mother in their eternally found home - watching over their children and praying for our joyful reunion.

The reunion with my cousin was indeed a long awaited day, and when it came, the joy and gratefulness of our safe "wiedersehn" became greater than what either of us had suffered and endured.  From now on we were going to face the future as a family -- together.

After two years of meager living in the scenic Ludwigsburg, our drems of coming to America, became a reality.

Again in the Fall of 1949, we packed our bags to go once more in search of a better world.  We certainly found it here, where anybody, even an insignificant refugee, can say and do what he pleases; where I was able to pen my memories of a happy childhood, and five years of horror and hardships; where my family and I took the oath of an American citizen, which made us again a part of a country; and where our hopes and ambitions for a brighter future for our coming generation were reborn.

Now that our hard times have ended, we cannot forget some of our friends, the Donauschwaben, who were not as fortunate in coming here, and the many who stayed on in the cemeteries of their homeland.

Let us hope that this country's prosperity remains and continues immigration in order to help more refugees just like us who were allowed to find a new home in America.

Katherine and George Flotz, present day
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