Escape from East Germany. The Book of Ruth,

                                                Spring 1953

I heard the forlorn whistle of a train. Helga was shaking me and yelling, “Get ready.”  I didn’t have time to put on my coat so tied it to my pack. She reminded me “Stay down until we see the engine curve out of sight, then we run for the last car.”

I could feel the rumble in the ground. We pulled up to our knees and watched through the waving grain as wheels screeched and started to go backwards to slow the weight of the long string of the train. We could see the last few cars slowing and straining. “Here we go” Helga squealed. We jumped up ready to charge toward the train, but froze because we saw the field dotted with others, lots of others. People were popping up like prairie dogs. These were people, just like us, who obviously had the same idea we had; To get away from East Germany, away to a better life.

I could hardly believe my eyes. It was a such a sight to see, young and old, appeared from no where, like ghosts. Helga and I held hands, looked at each other and began to move. Everyone in the field had one goal. We joined the others and were swept along with the throng of the many who were running to catch the train. I ran as fast as my legs could move but Helga and I were repeatedly pushed aside. Soon we were pulled apart and I was shoved to the ground. 

“How did I get into such a mess? I suppose it all began 14 years ago, when my father was conscripted into the Nazi Army and was killed during the invasion of Poland. And then, my mother gave me away.”

 

Chapter I. 1939-Early Days

  

 I am Ruth. I was born on August 4^th, 1939 in Gewirtz East Germany. Our small town was near the border of Poland but in those days, borders changed so frequently it was hard to track where one country ended and another began. Sometimes Czechoslovakia was its own country other times it was considered part of Poland, or Germany or Bohemia.

           Helmut, my father, was the oldest of three Stevier Children. His two sisters, my aunts, Adelia, and Walburga (Burga) attended local schools in  the village of Weimar. My grandmother, Emily Elizabeth was handicapped and could not work, but my grandfather, Anton Stevier, worked for the railroad as an engineer. In those days, everyone traveled by bus or train, so his work was steady. He was a good provider for his family (by German standards.)    My grandmother had been diagnosed with Multiple Scleroses soon after Burga was born. They were told the disorder was progressive and she was  made aware of the deterioration that would slowly rob her of mobility and a productive life. After that, grandmother’s world became one of disappointment and struggle. However, she found happiness in watching her children grow.  As her disease progressed, she lost the ability to walk. With no access to a wheelchair, she was carried everywhere. I never remember her walking.

My parents fell in love and married during these tumultuous days. Soon after that, in the spring of 1938 we heard from his new wife. She was frantic as she told us that my father, Helmut Stevier, did not come home for supper. Grandfather told her “We’ve learned he was snatched up with most of the young men in our village. The army came here and went to our work places and took any young man who could walk. They were all conscripted into the Nazi army.”  My father never had a chance to say goodbye to his new bride or his family. He was sent to the army camp for training with only the clothes on his back. We never heard from him again.

     In those days, all young men living in Germany, were expected to serve in the armed forces. Many didn’t want to leave family but still, they were, identified, drafted, and taken immediately to training camps. There they were given a uniform, a gun, a few weeks of training, then they were sent to the front lines. After that day my family never heard from my father again. 

People in our village were heard saying, “All our boys are dead.” Grandma 

prayed each day for Helmut's’ safety and did not believe the rumors.  It was

not until 1945 that we knew for a fact that he was gone. I had already

 imagined my father was part of the carnage that identified those first

assaults into Russia.  Four years later we received a letter from the Red

Cross stating, “Pvt. Helmut Stevier was killed in a bombing attack in the

first days of the war.” I was six years old when my Grandmother

gathered me to her ample lap and told me my father had been killed. She

said, “I know he was so brave he must have been in the front of the line

and one of the first to to be killed.” And so my father was proclaimed dead

after barely days into the initial incursion of Poland.

I never met my father and he never knew I was born. I have often wondered, "When we meet in heaven will he know who I am?”

To Be Continued...