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May 22, 2004 In the summer of 1943 Nazi officers came to our home and forcibly removed my father from the midst of our family. They place him on a train, among other dissidents of the Nazi regime and sent them all into forced labor across Europe, into territories invaded and held by Nazi armies. We heard nothing from him and were sure he was dead. Some months later, in an attempt to save her young family from sure destruction, my mother took us to the train station hoping to go to the country. As the smoke stack of the approaching locomotive became visible in the distance, the tightly packed mass of humanity waiting on the station platform surged forward - carrying wooden chests, stumbling over children, shoving each other aside, all with one thought: Get closer to the edge of the platform in order to jump onto the moving train before it comes to a stop, and drag one's family aboard. Next would be finding a place to stand, then hoping and praying the train pulls out quickly, before the next air attack, leaving behind the moonlit station, terror and grief of the burning city. The blonde young woman clutching a small girl tightly to her chest looked around, eyes dulled by lack of sleep, taking in the roaring crowd, a moving mass, hopelessly watching as children and elderly were passed through the open windows onto the train. Sacks and boxes were tossed onto the roof, many of them missing their mark and crashing back down, spilling their contents on the frozen ground. There were no helping hands here for the woman, no one to cut a pass for her to the train. Getting her little family aboard was clearly an impossible dream. Leaning heavily against a wooden chest, close to tears, she put her free arm around the taller of the two small girls gazing up at her. In the din surrounding her she did not see the small black car enter the station, motor drowned out by the crowd, moving slowly alongside the curb, its driver searching. The Nazi captain was looking for a face he had briefly seen several months back in a semi - dark hallway. At that time the beautiful tear stained face, surrounded by a halo of blonde hair, had been contorted in anger, fear and hate. Now he spotted her, leaning on the boxes with the small girls on either side of her. The captain breathed a sigh of relief as he got out of his car and softly approached the young woman from behind. The woman was my mother, the girls, my sister and I. That night the man put us aboard a hospital ship in the harbor. We traveled accross the Baltic Sea in the hold with horses, later in locked cattle cars accross Germany, as dirty starving refugees wanted by no one. In the early winter of 1944 we were unloded in a small German town. We lived in a barrack not fit for humans. After the war ended, in the spring of 1945, the American army moved us into the local castle - ironically, into the ballroom. Since we had no bedding or any clothing we lived on the floor the best we could. On a pleasant afternoon in June of 1945 I heard the boots of a German soldier coming up the back stairs of the old castle. I knew very well there were no German soldiers in the village. Not anymore. I myself had watched the American soldiers round them all up. However the boots kept coming and coming. Then, to my uncomprehending ten year old mind I heard my father's voice ask if anyone knows the whereabouts of his family. My father had walked from Italy through Germany searching for us, without any idea as to our whereabouts or if he would ever see us again, dead or alive. He was dressed in tattered clothing, rags in place of socks inside his boots. In his pocket he carried a tiny bracelet for my mother. He is gone now. However, this man, my father, has left me a legacy of indestructable human spirit, love of freedome and love of family. ------------ About the author Gunta Krasts Voutyras: Born in Liepaja, Latvia, proud citizen of the USA, and am a published author. An essay of mine was published in Hugh Downs' book "My America" and this essay may be viewed on my web site: guntacollectionltd.com. Currently I am working on a novel about the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York state. I have been writing poetry and short stories since I was eight years old. Email: gunta@capital.net Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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