|
Journey
Into
The
Unknown
"1983"
by
Anton Bedoe Zollner
Translated by Diana Lambing, published at DVHH.org 2003 by Jody McKim Pharr.
[One of the first articles contributed to the DVHH]
Put
yourself
in
the
shoes
of
someone
in
his
50th
year
who
suddenly
finds
himself
on
the
street
with
a
wife,
two
minors
and
a
75-year
old
mother,
all
their
worldly
goods
in
three
suitcases,
and
five
tickets
into
the
unknown.
In
the
suitcases
are
changes
of
underwear
for
several
weeks
and
for
each
person
a
‘best’
dress
or
suit;
the
tickets
are
valid
for
the
journey
from
Temeschburg
to
Nuernberg
and
the
only
identity
papers
are
the
famous
‘brown
passports’
which
indicate
that
the
holders
are
‘stateless’.
Each
person
also
carries
money
on
them
- a
hundred
lei
each!
One
is
allowed
to
take
that
much!
No,
these
people
are
not
posing
for
Stefan
Jaeger’s
triptych,
‘The
Immigration
of
the
Swabians
in
the
Banat’.
Nor
are
they
colonists
from
the
Maria
Theresia
era,
but
they
are
20th
Century
emigrants.
In
this
country
they
are
called
‘Aussiedler’
[emigrants],
or
at
best
‘ethnic
german
Romanians’.
But
the
life
of
suffering
for
this
Banat-Swabian
family
has
not
yet
reached
the
end
here
on
the
dark
and
empty
streets
of
Temeschburg.
There
is
still
an
act
missing
from
this
‘play’
which
could
be
titled
‘Swabian
Export’.
The
final
‘act’
takes
place
during
the
night
of
23rd
/
24th
November
1983
at
the
border
station
of
Kurtitsch
(official
name:
Curtici).
Luggage
check
and,
if
necessary,
a
body
search.
“What’s
that?”,
“Why
would
you
need
that
in
Germany?”,
“The
export
of
these
things
is
forbidden!”
-
these
are
the
usual
sorts
of
phrases
you
hear
at
customs.
The
adults
of
the
family
in
question
are
called
into
the
customs
room
with
their
three
suitcases.
“What
have
you
got
in
there?”
is
the
first
question.
“Everything
that
I’ve
worked
for
in
the
last
30
years”
is
the
answer.
But
that’s
not
good
enough
for
the
official
and
so
the
unpacking
begins.
As
the
customs
officer
finds
almost
nothing
but
underwear,
he
says,
“But
I’ve
got
to
tax
something!”
Notice
that
interesting
jargon
is
used
here:
one
is
spoken
to
in
the
familiar
form
[Du],
but
God
help
the
‘stateless’
person
who
would
dream
of
answering
back
in
the
same
manner!
He
then
looks
the
family
up
and
down
and
finally
decides,
“We’ll
tax
your
wife’s
new
coat.
Agreed?.”
How
can
one
answer
when
the
‘Orient
Express’
is
leaving
the
‘Glorious
Fatherland’
in a
few
hours?
Of
course
one
agrees
and
says,
“Thank
you
very
much!
Please
keep
the
change
out
of
the
2,000
lei
and
here’s
another
1,000
from
me
for
a
beer.”
How
can
one
not
offer
the
extra
1,000
when
the
customs
officer
has
just
spotted
the
children,
who
have
since
been
called
into
the
room,
are
wearing
gold
earrings?
One
knows
that
children
are
not
entitled,
as
adults
are,
to
export
the
usual
10
grams
of
gold
jewelry.
So
the
‘stateless’
person
argues
that
if
the
children’s
jewelry
had
been
hanging
from
the
adults’
ears,
then
they
wouldn’t
be
breaking
the
export
law.
But
the
‘goodhearted
customs
official’
doesn’t
insist
on
the
change
of
ownership
and
even
refuses
the
‘earned’
1,000
lei
- he
only
keeps
the
‘small’
change
of
400
lei
as
pocket
money
instead.
And
so
the
payment
of
duty
for
the
‘stateless’
people
is
over
and
they
are
happy
and
relieved
to
have
passed
through
customs
so
easily.
But
one
suspects
there
are
others
who
‘pay
duty’
who
leave
with
tears
in
their
eyes
because
they
didn’t
know
the
ropes.
But
the
final
‘act’
still
doesn’t
seem
to
be
over.
An
officer
from
the
border
troops
comes
up
to
the
‘stateless
family’
and
demands
that
the
father
follows
him.
They
leave
the
station
waiting
room
and
the
four
female
members
of
the
family
gradually
grow
restless,
frightened
and
jittery.
Nearly
all
their
fellow
countrymen
who
are
in
the
waiting-room
notice
the
incident.
Naturally,
everyone
thinks
something
bad
is
about
to
happen
again.
When
the
man
‘abducted’
by
the
official
eventually
reappears,
smiling,
in
the
doorway,
a
sigh
of
relief
comes
from
the
family.
The
other
people
present
soon
return
to
their
own
thoughts.
Nobody
was
allowed
to
know
the
subject
of
the
conversation
which
had
taken
place
outside,
not
even
the
family
themselves.
Everyone
-
even
the
children
-
knew
that
otherwise
the
border,
which
was
now
almost
within
reach,
could
be
closed
to
them
for
ever.
Actually,
nothing
unusual
had
happened
in
the
isolated
corner
of
the
station.
“Attention!
Get
your
things
ready
for
the
boss!
He’ll
call
you
in a
minute”,
said
the
official.
The
person
concerned
knew
exactly
what
this
was
all
about.
“Why
should
we
waste
the
boss’s
time?
Here’s
the
1,000
[lei]
-
please
give
it
to
the
boss.
Is
that
alright?”.
There
follows
a
handshake,
as
with
former
‘comrades’
and
with
that
the
official
duties
relating
to
the
‘betrayed
Fatherland’
are
over
for
ever.
Shortly
afterwards
the
‘Orient
Express’
heading
West
arrives
at
the
station.
The
platform
is
completely
cleared,
everyone
has
to
go
into
the
waiting-room,
the
doors
are
closed
and
guarded
by
an
armed
border
guard.
In
the
early
morning
hours
of a
cold
November
day
an
unusual
activity
now
begins.
In
every
wagon
the
roof
recesses
are
opened,
lit
up
and
searched.
Inside,
the
seats
are
dismantled
and
all
niches
checked.
At
the
same
time
border
guards
search
between
the
wheels
and
the
floors
of
the
wagons.
And
as
if
that
wasn’t
enough
another
official
finally
arrives
with
an
Alsatian
dog
which
sniffs
through
the
whole
train
again.
Only
now,
after
the
performance
of
these
costly
‘important’
procedures
is
the
transport
of
the
‘stateless
export
goods’
allowed.
They
can
now
queue
for
the
last
time
and
reclaim
the
duty
paid
suitcases.
On
the
platform
there
is
total
silence
as
one
listens
to
the
clumsy
calling
of
the
German
names.
Only
the
ones
called
are
allowed
to
board
and
that’s
why
everyone
is
afraid
that
they’ll
miss
their
name.
The
lucky
‘stateless
people’
are
already
in
their
seats
on
the
train,
but
most
of
them
still
can’t
believe
that
they
will
cross
over
the
tantalizingly
close
border.
Only
when
the
blue,
yellow
and
red
flag
is
behind
them
does
the
open-plan
wagon
shudder
into
life.
One
even
allows
oneself
to
imagine
a
future
in
the
motherland,
even
if
none
of
these
travelers
knows
what
it
looks
like.
The
‘Orient
Express’
travels
towards
this
unknown
future
with
several
dozen
‘stateless’
people
through
the
dark
morning
of
24th
November
1983.
The
Arrival
in
the
Motherland
(2)
The
‘Orient
Express’
had
barely
left
Kurtitsch
with
its
new
‘load’
of
emigrants
when
it
stopped
again,
but
this
didn’t
worry
the
‘special
travelers’
any
more.
We
were,
thank
God,
already
on
Hungarian
soil.
But
here
the
scene
which
had
only
just
taken
place
in
Kurtitsch
began
all
over
again.
Everything
was
checked:
the
roof
recesses,
under
the
seats,
between
the
wheels.
This
time,
only
our
suitcases
were
spared.
Already
then,
in
1983,
we
were
regarded
as
‘Refugees
from
the
Ceausescu
Paradise’
and
people
treated
us
in
an
accordingly
friendly
manner.
Our
unique
‘brown
passports’
drew
pity
amongst
the
Hungarians,
too.
Of
course,
this
still
wasn’t
enough
to
be
able
to
get
a
cup
of
coffee
with
our
remaining
Romanian
currency.
We
were
advised
to
use
our
five
100
lei
notes
as
toilet
paper.
It
was
then
that
we
realized
we
would
have
not
a
penny
in
our
pockets
for
several
days.
Well,
if
nothing
else
happens
to
us
on
the
1,000
km
[625
miles]
stretch
ahead,
then
everything
will
be
alright.
The
first
unpleasant
surprise,
however,
already
surfaced
at
Vienna
where
we
had
to
change
trains.
We
boarded
an
Inter-City
train
without
having
the
necessary
supplementary
charge.
The
Austrian
Railways
ticket
collector
wanted
to
do
his
duty
but
how
could
he
when
both
our
lei
notes
and
‘brown
passports’
were
absolutely
worthless
to
him?
So
there
remained
nothing
for
him
to
do
but
to
take
us
as
stowaways.
We’d
hardly
reached
German
soil
in
Passau
(our
Motherland
at
last!)
when
we
already
began
to
feel
that
our
‘integration’
here
wouldn’t
run
as
smoothly
as
we
were
to
be
told
in
festive
speeches
in
the
coming
days.
As
we
handed
our
requested
passports
to
the
border
police,
the
official
gave
them
a
look
of
contempt
and
threw
them
on
the
seats
as
quick
as a
flash,
as
if
they
were
contaminated.
And
so
we
entered
the
Motherland
with
no
form
of
passport
control.
Was
this
meant
to
be
some
sort
of
‘Welcome’?
Late
one
Wednesday
evening
we
arrived
at
the
gateway
for
immigration
in
Nuernberg,
hungry,
thirsty
and
above
all,
tired.
Here,
each
arrival
received
a
parcel
of
cold
food
which
was
supposed
to
last
for
three
days.
The
food
parcel
had
been
thoughtfully
put
together,
and
there
was
even
a
beer.
But
as
we
looked
for
the
longed-for
piece
of
bread,
we
couldn’t
believe
our
eyes.
There
was
no
way
you
could
compare
this
‘bread’
with
our
Banater
white
loaf.
“Is
there
such
poverty
here
as
well?”,
was
our
first
thought.
No!
Just
the
opposite,
as
we
would
find
out
in
the
next
few
days
in
the
Nuernberg
shops.
So
why
this
‘excuse’
for
bread?
We
discovered
that
evening
that
apart
from
‘our’
white
bread
and
the
dark
bread
of
the
bad
times,
there
was
also
crisp
bread!
In
the
end,
we
had
to
live
off
our
3-day
food
parcels
for
five
days
and
on
top
of
that
without
our
‘daily
bread’.
We
couldn’t
even
bear
to
look
at
the
crisp
bread,
let
alone
eat
it.
Our
‘welcoming
money’
was
handed
to
us
only
on
the
Monday,
that
is
five
days
later,
and
then
only
one
hour
before
the
next
stage
of
the
journey.
The
consequence
of
our
lack
of
money
during
these
days
would
affect
our
children
most
of
all.
When
we
visited
the
world
famous
‘Christkindlesmarkt’
[Christmas
fair]
we
suddenly
found
ourselves
in a
fairytale
world.
Even
Hansel
and
Gretel
in
Grimm’s
fairytales
would
have
been
in
awe.
Our
eyes
couldn’t
take
in
the
sights,
nor
our
noses
the
smells
which
aroused
an
irresistible
appetite
for
the
thousands
of
kinds
of
sweets,
as
well
as
the
Nuernberg
sausages
and
the
mulled
wine.
At
the
same
time,
it
was
snowing
on
the
fair
with
its
hundreds
of
thousands
of
lights.
Around
us,
hundreds
of
happy
children
were
milling
around,
enjoying
their
sweets
and
biscuits.
Our
young
daughter,
Gaby,
couldn’t
cope
with
this
‘fairytale
land’
in
which
she
had
suddenly
found
herself.
She
broke
down
and
collapsed
in
front
of
us.
All
this
only
happened
because
we
had
been
let
out
of
our
old
home
country
as
poor
as
church
mice
and
so
for
five
days
had
‘not
a
penny
in
our
pockets’.
At
the
same
time,
though,
throughout
the
whole
of
the
country
people
were
avidly
collecting
donations
for
the
poor
in
the
‘Third
World’.
Nor
could
we
understand
why
we
had
been
given
the
‘welcoming
money’
only
when
we
left
Nuernberg,
rather
than
when
we
had
arrived.
One
hour
after
receiving
the
‘welcoming
money’,
we
sat
cheerful
and
happy,
but
with
rumbling
tummies,
in
an
Inter-City
train
and
rattled
towards
Nordrhein-Westfalen.
On
the
Way
to
‘Integration’
(3)
It
was
the
last
Monday
of
the
month
of
November
1983.
Immigrants
were
brought
to
Nuernberg
railway
station
where
they
boarded
a
train
bound
for
‘The
North’.
The
group
travel
ticket
was
entrusted
to
me
because
our
family,
which
included
two
schoolgirls
(14
and
13
years
old)
and
a
75-year
old
mother
had
the
farthest
to
go.
Feeling
happy,
we
admired
the
beautiful
Franconian
winter
scene
with
its
pretty
villages
made
up
of
mainly
white
houses.
But
we
were
soon
to
say
goodbye
with
heavy
hearts
to
our
fellow
countrymen
who
were
staying
in
southern
Germany.
The
last
Banat-Swabians
dismounted
at
Frankurt
am
Main,
but
we
rolled
on
further
into
unfamiliar
territory.
The
Free
State
of
Bavaria
was
long
behind
us
and
the
scenery
we
were
traversing
changed
gradually
‘according
to
the
degree
of
latitude’.
At
the
time,
we
did
not
know
that
on
crossing
the
river
Main
we
had
crossed
the
‘veal
sausage
equator’,
which
for
Banat-Swabians
can
be
compared
to
the
Tscherna
(official
name:
Cerna)
river.
If
you
travel
east
from
Orschowa
over
this
river,
not
only
do
the
fields
suddenly
look
different,
but
also
their
smell.
Our
train
rattled
on
through
ever
‘darker’
villages
and
what
to
us
seemed
really
strange
countryside.
We
had
to
change
trains
in
Hagen,
whereupon
every
member
of
the
family
refused
to
go
any
further.
It
was
hard
to
convince
them
that
the
Ruhr
area
with
its
soot,
the
coal
dust
and
the
ground
covered
in
rust,
was
no
reason
to
turn
back.
And
anyway:
go
back?
Where
to?
There
was
only
one
aim
to
our
journey:
Unna-Massen
Nord.
In
Unna
we
were
to
be
met
by a
car.
We
eventually
found
it,
and
the
driver,
with
a
silent
nod,
beckoned
us
to
get
in.
The
drive
to
the
camp
passed
in
silence.
My
questions
remained
a
monologue.
But
in
the
end
we
were
happy
and
fortunate
as
we
entered
our
warm
and
clean
two-bedroom
accommodation.
We
were
to
stay
here
for
over
a
month
and
when
we
emerged
it
would
be
as
‘freshly
baked
German
citizens’.
The
following
morning
we
wanted
to
look
for
other
fellow
countrymen
before
the
visit
to
the
authorities,
but
we
were
shocked
to
find
that
throughout
the
whole
settlement
only
polish
was
spoken.
It
was
like
being
in
Poland.
There
was
not
a
single
authority,
school
or
church
which
hadn’t
been
created
solely
for
Poles.
So
where
are
the
Germans,
we
asked
ourselves.
There
were
several
-
the
Silesians
who
had
had
to
flee
in
1945
and
who
were
now
the
administrators
here.
This
was
fortunate
for
us
new
arrivals,
otherwise
we
couldn’t
have
made
ourselves
understood.
In
school,
our
children
had
special
lessons
as
they
were
the
only
ones
who
spoke
german.
Naturally,
we
enjoyed
a
’special
status’
in
this
camp;
in
the
whole
of
Unna-Massen
Nord
we
were
the
only
ones,
apart
from
a
Banat-Swabian
couple
and
a
Siebenbuerg-Saxon
woman,
who
could
really
be
called
Germans.
These
were
exciting
times
for
our
children.
They
experienced
their
first
‘official’
Advent
and
likewise
Father
Christmas,
who
came
to
the
school
heavily
laden
and
by
helicopter
to
boot!
We
all
experienced
the
first
‘legitimate’
Christmas
holidays
for
30
years.
The
Nordrhein-Westfalen
State
and
the
charity
organizations
gave
many
Christmas
presents
to
all
immigrants;
the
adults
received
their
first
basic
essentials
and
the
children
received
many
toys.
But
as
well
as
the
goodwill
the
people
had
shown
us,
we
also
experienced
disappointments
-
not
from
strangers,
but
from
relatives
who
told
us
that
everything
that
had
been
given
to
us
had
been
‘taken’
from
them,
i.e.
paid
for
by
their
taxes.
You
can
imagine
how
such
words,
after
so
many
years,
really
couldn’t
affect
us
any
more.
Equipped
with
our
new
german
identity
papers
we
left
the
State
of
Unna-Massen
Nord
on
January
4th
1984,
unemployed
and
recipients
of
unemployment
benefit.
We
moved
to
Cologne
where
we
got
a
cheap
apartment
in a
hostel
for
immigrants.
We
definitely
wanted
to
settle
down
in a
large
town
so
that
all
kinds
of
schools
would
be
easily
accessible
to
our
children
(including
the
High
School).
We
ourselves
hoped
to
find
work
in
Cologne
and
at
the
same
time
to
finally
become
fully
assimilated.
But
it
was
to
be
several
months
before
this
happened.
At
the
time,
we
thought
Cologne
was
a
lovely
town
and
we
already
had
ideas
of
it
being
our
adoptive
home
town.
That’s
why
we
went
for
many
walks
through
the
town
and
the
surrounding
area.
At
the
same
time,
we
managed
alright
with
the
language
as
people
hardly
used
the
‘Cologne’
dialect
in
public
and
almost
without
exception
used
high-german.
Of
course,
our
’high-german’
sounded
strange,
or
rather
more
like
’foreign
german’,
whereas
the
locals
had
a
’prussian’
accent.
The
girls
went
to
the
’Theophanu’
High
School
in
Cologne
without
being
put
back
a
year.
The
only
conspicuous
thing
was
that
they
hardly
ever
had
to
learn
anything.
But
the
reports
they
received
were
always
lower
than
those
they
had
received
in
Temeschburg,
even
though
throughout
the
whole
school
year
they
had
lived
off
‘stuff
they
had
learnt
and
brought
with
them’.
We
lived
in a
quiet,
german
quarter
but
we
were
always
bumping
into
a
large
number
of
‘foreign
fellow
citizens’,
especially
Turks
and
Italians,
which
quite
surprised
us
at
the
time.
In a
way,
they
reminded
us
of
our
old
home
town
where
the
country’s
people
looked
very
similar.
On
the
other
hand,
we
immediately
realised
that
our
ancestors
had
settled
in
the
eastern
frontier
area
of
the
Danube
monarchy
in
order
to
protect
the
West
from
the
Turks.
Now
we
were
coming
back
to
the
‘Empire’
and
found
it
‘occupied’
by
Turks!
Funny
old
world!
‘Integration’ (4)
For
four
months
we
had
been
sitting
in
Cologne
and
regularly
‘cashed’
our
unemployment
benefit
without
the
employment
office
trying
even
once
to
find
us
work.
One
day,
my
wife
and
I
were
at
last
sent
for.
Happy
and
full
of
hope
we
went
to
the
employment
office.
Unfortunately,
there
was
no
mention
of
work,
but
instead
we
were
to
be
sent
on a
‘Course
for
Immigrants
on
Language,
Social
and
Commercial
Integration’.
So
they
didn’t
want
us
to
‘integrate’
so
much,
rather
than
to
extend
our
unemployment
benefit
for
eight
months.
When
we
realized
this,
it
became
clear
that
the
employment
office
was
never
going
to
try
to
find
us
work.
But
we
also
knew
that
to
find
a
job
could
take
any
amount
of
attempts.
I
won’t
even
bother
to
write
about
the
dozen
adult
education
centers
in
Cologne
with
their
lectures
marked
‘red’
or
‘green’.
It
was
in
these
circumstances
that
we
applied
for
a
job
in
the
public
services
on
16th
April
1984.
The
reply
which
we
received
a
month
later
from
the
Cologne
postal
district
read:
‘Unfortunately,
all
suitable
vacancies
have
been
filled’.
At
the
same
time,
they
had
‘tried
hard
to
find
work
opportunities’
and
recommended
us
to
apply
to
the
German
Federal
Post
Office
in
the
southern
part
of
the
Federal
Republic.
We
tried
it,
and
applied
for
eight
postal
district
jobs,
out
of
which
we
received
seven
offers.
The
most
favorable
one
came
from
Munich:
two
qualified
employees
with
some
experience
were
offered
part-time
work
with
-
the
emergency
services!
In
the
seven
months
that
we
had
lived
as
immigrants
in
the
Motherland
it
had
become
obvious
to
us
that
there
would
only
be
menial
work
for
us
here.
That’s
why
two
part-time
jobs
in
public
service,
at
the
same
work
place
and
in a
large
town
at
that,
with
the
best
schools
of
the
Federal
Republic,
was
too
tempting
to
turn
down.
We
couldn’t
foresee,
however,
what
all
this
would
mean.
The
first
hurdle
was
to
try
to
find
an
apartment.
In
August
1984
we
decided,
at
all
costs,
to
look
for
an
apartment
in
Munich.
Luckily
at
the
time
the
Federal
Railways
had
their
promotional
week
and
because
we
were
the
6,666th
customer
during
this
offer
we
were
presented
with
a
large
bouquet
of
flowers
at
Cologne
railway
station
and
an
envelope
which
contained
the
total
cost
of
the
tickets
we
had
just
purchased.
Some
people
would
think
this
first
hurdle
was
a
lucky
break.
Unfortunately,
this
was
the
only
lucky
break.
At
the
next
hurdle
we
already
stumbled:
looking
for
cheap
overnight
accommodation
in
Munich.
At
the
station’s
mission,
the
‘lady’
was
offered
a
wooden
bench
for
the
night,
but
no
men
were
allowed
there.
This
is
why
the
donation
collectors
from
this
mission
has
never
received
a
penny
from
us
to
date.
Luckily,
we
found
the
‘cheapest
guest
house
in
Munich’
at
the
edge
of
the
town:
40
DM
for
a
double
room.
The
following
day
the
interview
with
our
future
employer
also
went
well.
During
our
stay
in
Munich
we
also
became
convinced
that
the
Bavarian
way
of
life
closely
resembled
the
Banaters’.
After
spending
almost
a
year
in
the
North
it
felt
as
though
we
had
found
a
part
of
Temeschburg
again
here
in
Munich.
It
was,
however,
made
clear
to
us
that
it
would
be a
whole
year
before
any
social
housing
would
be
considered
for
us -
and
that
only
on
condition
that
we
had
found
work
in
Munich.
Our
future
employer
also
made
it
clear
to
us
at
the
same
time
that
employment
would
only
be
possible
after
‘police
registration
in
Munich’.
What
other
solution
was
there?
Either
we
remain
‘immigrants’
for
the
time
being,
or
we
rent
an
apartment
in
the
‘free
housing
market’.
We
certainly
didn’t
want
to
remain
‘immigrants’;
it
wasn’t
the
sort
of
life
we
had
imagined
during
all
those
sleepless
nights.
But
an
apartment
in
the
‘free
market’
meant
a
rent
of
around
1,000
DM,
deposit
and
commission,
and
this
only
assuming
that
we
would
be
accepted
by a
‘kind
hearted
estate
agent’.
So
we
chose
ten
possible
apartments
from
the
newspaper
advertisements
and
tried
our
luck.
One
wouldn’t
take
us
because
we
had
children,
another
because
we
couldn’t
give
any
references.
The
third
one
we
didn’t
even
get
past
the
telephone
interview
because
of
our
strange
accent.
Others
wouldn’t
take
us
as
tenants
because
we
had
no
‘regular
income’
and
one
estate
agent
even
said
that
he
wouldn’t
consider
immigrants.
The
remaining
apartments
had
simply
already
been
let.
Twenty-four
hours
before
our
return
to
Cologne,
that
was
on a
Friday,
we
decided
to
‘play
our
last
card’,
as
was
done
back
in
our
old
home
land.
We
called
the
agent
of
an
apartment
which
had
already
been
let
and
put
forward
a
business
proposal
to
him...in
the
beer
garden.
At
the
time,
we
were
amazed
when
our
proposal
was
accepted.
We
didn’t
actually
meet
in
the
beer
garden,
but
were
received
at
the
last
minute
in
the
estate
agent’s
office.
I
kept
my
promise
and
as
an
introduction
to
my
talk,
lay
two
100
DM
notes
on
the
table.
I
then
described
our
true
position
to
him
and
at
the
same
time
made
it
clear
to
him
that
our
chances
of
being
assimilated
were
now
entirely
dependent
on
him.
The
outcome
of
the
conversation?
On
Saturday
we
left
Munich
on
the
last
train
with
a
lease
on a
2-bedroom
apartment,
but
for
which
we’d
had
to
pay
an
extra
4,500
DM.
Leaving
Cologne
didn’t
go
as
‘smoothly’
as
we
would
have
wished.
Most
of
the
difficulties
were
made
by
the
employment
office.
The
people
there
simply
couldn’t
understand
that
our
most
fervent
wish
was
to
work.
They
also
found
it
hard
to
believe
that
we
had
learned
the
german
language
at
our
mother’s
knee.
That’s
why
they
didn’t
want
us
to
leave
the
Integration
course.
We
were
only
able
to
do
this
once
we’d
been
to
see
the
director
of
the
employment
office.
But
even
he
couldn’t
believe
that
we
would
want
to
give
up
1,200
DM
unemployment
benefit
in
order
to
work
for
an
emergency
service
which
would
only
pay
900
DM
per
month.
The
High
School
which
the
children
had
been
going
to
also
gave
an
interesting
‘farewell
speech’.
Form
teacher
(Doctor
of
German):
“Madam
Director,
the
gentleman
would
like
to
take
his
children
away.
They
are
moving
abroad.”
Headmistress:
“Abroad?
I
knew
they
were
moving
to
Munich.”
“Yes,
you
see!
To
Bavaria!
That’s
‘abroad’
to
us,
isn’t
it?”
“Alright.
But
it
is
still
in
the
Federal
Republic.”
Then
she
turned
to
me
and
said,
“We
are
very
sorry
to
lose
such
outstanding
pupils.
They
were
our
pride
and
joy.”
I
asked
in
true
amazement,
“But
Madam
Director,
according
to
their
reports
they
were
only
mediocre
students.”
“Oh
yes!
You
know,
as
pupils
from
a
linguistic
enclave,
we
couldn’t
treat
them
the
same
as
our
own
pupils.
After
their
‘integration’,
that
would
have
soon
been
resolved.”
Now
I
understood
the
reason
for
the
mediocre
marks.
It’s
as
though
we
were
German
citizens
with
equal
rights.....but
still
not
quite!
What
that
means
to a
child,
though,
could
make
a
study
for
psychologists
-
and
educationalists!
Things
went
really
badly
with
the
move.
As
we
had,
according
to
the
lease,
an
apartment
in
Munich
from
October
1st
1984,
we
also
arranged
to
start
the
new
job
on
the
same
day.
On
September
29th
we
heard
that
our
new
apartment
was
still
a
shell.
At
least
we
could
register
with
the
police
with
our
lease,
but
where
would
we
live?
We
stood
with
two
children
and
three
suitcases
on
the
street,
the
container
was
at
Munich
station
and
mother,
luckily,
was
with
relatives
in
Cologne.
In
this
situation
there
was
nothing
left
to
do
but
to
move
into
an
expensive
hotel.
But
this
was
only
a
theoretical
solution
as
the
Oktoberfest
was
on
in
Munich
and
so
all
the
hotels
were
full.
Luckily
we
found
a
room
in a
Dachau
hotel
and
a
dear
family
who
took
pity
on
us.
They
offered
to
accommodate
the
four
of
us
in a
double
room.
This
family
felt
for
us
and
showed
sympathy
towards
us
several
times,
for
which
we
will
be
eternally
grateful.
For
nearly
a
whole
month
we
became
‘Dachauers’
and
I
traveled
to
Munich
and
back
three
times
daily.
In
the
morning
I
took
the
children
to
school,
at
midday
I
collected
them
and
the
third
time
my
wife
and
I
traveled
to
work
in
the
afternoon
and
returned
to
the
hotel
at
night.
So
it
meant
going
to
bed
at
midnight
and
getting
up
at
5.30
in
the
morning.
When
we
moved
out
of
the
hotel
we
had
to
pay
1000
DM
on
overnight
stays
alone.
This
happened
on
October
26th
1984
when
we
were
‘allowed’
to
move
into
our
‘new
apartment’.
I
say
‘move
in’
because
it
couldn’t
really
be
called
moving
in.
The
construction
manager
let
us
move
into
the
apartment
which
was
still
being
built
and
whose
attic
floor
was
still
full
of
building
rubble.
Here,
we
slept
on
old
rags,
ate
and
studied
sitting
on
suitcases,
and
cooked
on
wooden
boxes.
This
is
how
we
became
the
first
tenants
of
the
residential
building
and
at
the
same
time
caretaker
of
the
new
building.
On
November
24th
1984
when
we
received
our
first
wages
in
DM,
we
had
25
DM
left
to
our
name,
but
1,500
DM
debts
with
relatives.
That
was
the
price
of
our
‘integration’!
For
the
second
time
in a
year
we
were
once
again
‘without
a
penny
in
our
pockets’.
But
for
all
that
we
had
a
job,
a
cozy
home
and
soon
afterwards
a
wonderful
new
adoptive
country
in
Bavaria.
|
