Silent Victory
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The Other Shore Prologue Page 2 CONCORDIA UNIVERSITY School of Graduate Studies This is to certify that the thesis prepared By: Leonard D. Eichel Entitled: The Other Shore and submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts (English) complies with the regulations of the University and meets the accepted standards with respect to originality and quality. Signed by the final examining committee: Terence Byrnes Chair Mikhail Iossel Examiner Marcie Frank Examiner Josip Novakovich Supervisor Approved by Chair of Department or Graduate Program Director Joanne Locke Dean of Faculty November 27, 2012 Date THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 3 Prologue THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 4 My friend Bill told me that writing all this down would be of benefit. He said I’ll get it all out of my system and then I’ll be able to die in peace. He winked at me then, so I knew he was kidding. Well, half kidding anyway. I’m 77 so the thought of dying occupies more of my thoughts than it used to. And what I did during the war, those memories I’ve kept bottled up inside for decades, well, they’re starting to come to the front of my mind more often now. They rise like morning fog in my dreams, all warped and distorted, and I wake up in a sweat. After so long, it’s still a wonder I dream about it. But I do. And then I sit in the easy chair by the front window staring out at the dark and I wonder more and more if it’s time to reveal what happened. Coming to Canada at the beginning of the 50’s, I was full of hope for my new life and not just for the chance to work in a job that I loved or to start a family in a new country. No, I thought I could also find a way to forget the last ten years of my life. As I boarded the Italia at the port in Hamburg in April, 1952, I couldn’t conceive of a time when I could return to Germany and that was fine with me. The Russians controlled half of what used to be my country. Berlin, the city of my birth and childhood, was divided, scarred like a pie cut raggedly down the middle by an unsteady hand, a narrow rail corridor connecting it with the West. All the places I grew up in were now verboten to me, all in the Russian Zone, soon to be another country ridiculously called East Germany. As a former Wehrmacht soldier, I couldn’t simply go there and pick up where I left off. The rumours about what they might do to ex-soldiers scared the crap out of me, thick as they were with stories of Gulags in Siberia or being conscripted to work in some manufacturing plant east of the Urals. Or worse, simply being shot. THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 5 And so the decision of what to do was fairly simple. Find a way to leave and start anew. When the British released me from my POW camp in 1946, I’d decided then to finish my University studies in Forestry and take night courses in both Spanish and English. I know what you’re thinking. Here’s a Nazi who wants to flee to South America and join with the other secret cabals already in place and dream up ways to resurrect the Reich. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint but my reasons were more practical. I was simply hedging my bets so that I’d have more than one option to leave the country. There were plenty of trees in both Canada and South America and both places wanted educated Forestry experts to make sense of the resources they had. But after being captured by the Canadians and being made their prisoner for months, I have to tell you that I pretty much made my decision to go to Canada. My guards were kind, respectful boys who fed me three meals a day and gave me light tasks such as raking the grounds and repairing leather belts and harnesses to keep me busy. I also learned a bit of English from them, halting phrases to ask for cigarettes or to ask them where they were from in Canada. One of my guards, he just pointed to a table and then slid his hand across the surface. “My home, Jake,” he said, “in Madrid, Saskatchewan.” Jake. That’s me. Jakob Herrmann, really, but the guards found me more acceptable as a ‘Jake’ than a Jakob. I didn’t complain. Changing my name helped the process of forgetting, so I welcomed it. In 1950, when I was nearing the end of my studies, notices began to be posted advertising for trained immigrants for Canada, the United States and Australia. This was after Canada lifted the ban on German immigrants. Before then, we were enemy aliens. I THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 6 was happy when I saw notices and, given where I was in my programme, I applied. In anticipation of getting a quick response, I gathered everything I thought I needed to live in another country – my books, clothes, money and a passport. As I thought, my acceptance arrived mere weeks after along with material from the Canadian authorities on where to apply for work. The choice was easy. Given what I read, the west coast of Canada looked like the most likely spot, so I applied for a posting with the BC Provincial Forest Service. Once they knew of my studies and that I’d been accepted by Canadian immigration, they hired me for a summer job doing forest inventory. When he heard the news, my uncle purchased a Settler’s ticket with the Canadian Pacific Railway for me – one way, Halifax to Victoria, 75 Canadian dollars. I had another problem. Well, not a problem. How can I describe this? A logistical issue? What am I saying? Ach! I’ll just tell it straight out. I met a girl in my English class. Frieda Kiel. She wanted to get out of Germany as well. Her ancestral home – like mine – was in the Russian Zone. Her parents and sister were leaving for the United States and she naturally was going with them until she met me and began to have second thoughts. We’d paired up as conversation partners. That first class was a hoot. We sat facing each other and after a couple of moments said ‘Hello’, the only English word we knew. And then there was a long silence. We smiled. We looked around at the others. We fidgeted. Finally, the instructor came around and tapped our learning material with a rigid finger, a stern look on her face. “Ja, ja,” I said. Frieda suppressed a giggle and we started by mouthing the expressions next to their German counterparts, struggling to pronounce the unfamiliar words. THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 7 Four months later, I decided to approach Frieda’s father and ask for her hand. I was such a traditionalist. Frieda told me she’d prepare her family and her house for my visit. When I arrived, she was wearing a new dress for the occasion, pinched narrowly at the waist and flaring outward and down to mid-calf, made from a powder-blue fabric that shimmered in the light. She had carefully styled her hair, the dark curls tamed and swept back from her face, which was fresh-scrubbed and rosy, her green eyes clear and bright. She looked heavenly to me. I’d borrowed a suit from my Uncle that was a little big on my frame, but it was clean, the shoes polished, and I thought I cut a respectable figure. After a dinner where the conversation wandered from the war, the re-construction effort and our various plans to leave the country, Frieda’s father, Dieter, invited me into his study, alone. He poured me a glass of bourbon, offered me a cigarette and motioned for me to sit down on a two-seater sofa. “So. We both know why you’re here, Jakob,” he said. He flicked on a gas lighter and I approached, letting the tip of the cigarette be engulfed in the flame before inhaling. “American?” “Yes. Seems they’re everywhere now.” He picked the box up off the desk. “Lucky Strike.” “I’ve seen them, but never had one,” I said. I inhaled, and as I let the smoke out of my lungs, delicately spat out a tobacco strand. “Das is gut.” I took a sip of my bourbon. “You know we’re planning to go to the United States?” Dieter asked. I nodded, waiting to see where he wanted to go with this. “There are better opportunities for me there. DuPont seems keen. But for you, you want to go to Canada. Why?” THE OTHER SHORE – Prologue Page 8 “Well, I, uh, they have a lot of trees,” I said. I was nervous. And when Dieter didn’t say anything, I got more nervous. But I’d thought about this for a while, so I just kept talking. “As you know, I’ve finished my studies in Forestry. There are a lot of opportunities for foresters in Canada.” “I see. But what do you know about Canada?” I shrugged. “What does anyone know about Canada? We know so little. But I met Canadians when I was a POW. They’re good people. It gave me a good impression.” “They were our enemies.” “So were the Americans.