Our Flight from Genocide
This story begins in the fall of 1944 in a small German village, Schowe, located in the Pannonian plain, between the Donau and Theiss rivers. I am using the German names here as I learned then back then when I was not yet ten years of age. The war was no longer far off, and preparations were going on all around the village. Some folks decided it was best to get away, many, especially the older residents, thought that the coming events were “not that bad”. My own father, Ludwig Keck, yes, his name was the same as mine and indeed his dad’s, was away in the Hungarian army. He was their diesel equipment repair specialist, but that is another story. My mother, Magdalena Keck, had decided to accept the offer of her uncle, Philip Lahm, to go with him and his family on the trek to the north to escape the coming war front. They had a wagon pulled by two horses loaded with a few necessities and their family, along with me, my mother, and my two younger brothers, aged 6 and 2.
It was now November of 1944, I don’t remember the exact date, and I don’t remember saying goodby to my grandmothers, but shortly after we got underway my grandfather came racing along on his bicycle. He tossed it to the ground in the ditch alongside the road and ran up and embraced me with tears in his eyes. I can still feel the stubble of his unshaven cheek pressing against mine. He clearly knew the gloomy uncertainties of the future; indeed, this was the last time I would see him. He hugged us again and again.
A long convoy of wagons travelled northwest, a small part of the Donauschwaben, the German population of the area. Most stayed home not knowing, or believing, that it would be the end for the majority of them.
We came to the outskirts of a larger town. I am not sure, it may have been Fünfkirchen (Pécs, it what was then and still is Hungary). The convoy just crawled along. I remember asking about what I was seeing in the field to the left of our wagon, it looked like bundles of belongings. I got no answer but gathered the sad truth from conversations I overheard. A large group of Jewish people had been herded on foot through the area to the railroad station in town.
The traffic jam brought our convoy to a halt. My brothers and I had been fussing and mom decided to take us off the wagon and walk alongside. Pretty soon we were well ahead of our wagon when alarm sirens sounded. Some local folks grabbed us and rushed us into an air raid shelter. When the all-clear signal came we went outside and found the road empty, the wagons were gone. Nobody could tell us what had happened to them or how to catch up with them.
Here was my mother, alone with three kids and nothing but her handbag, in an unfamiliar town. Locals told her that an evacuation train was loading at the railway station, and we should go there for help. And so we were loaded into an empty boxcar along with other fleeing folks.
The train travelled slowly and mostly at night to avoid being targeted by the frequent Allied aircraft. The doors of the boxcar were open to let in some light and air with just a steel bar across. I made my way to the open door to look at the unfamiliar terrain outside. Mountains, something I had not seen before. Rocky sides, occasional rivers and bridges. We came into a station, and I can still see the signs saying “Klagenfurt”. We had come to Austria but the train kept going. I don’t know how many days it took, but eventually we were told that we had arrived at our destination and it was time to leave the train.
We had come to Gablonz in the Sudentland. A large building, maybe a school, had been hurriedly set up with cots and bunk beds and became our shelter. Days went by. Our meals consisted mostly of boiled potatoes with caraway seeds for flavoring. To this day I cannot stand caraway seeds. I asked my mom if this would be our new home. The welling tears in her eyes told me that I had asked the wrong question. I cannot imagine the agony that she must have been going through. Alone with three little boys and absolutely no belongings other than her handbag. Alone in a far-off town with other refugees crowded into a large room, not knowing of the whereabouts or fate of our relatives. She was just 33 years old at the time, she had never been away from Schowe farther than the nearby city of Neusatz. And now fate had tossed her into an unbearable situation. But she coped.
After a few days we were taken to a nearby village, Daleshitz. A family there had a small one room building by their house which they used during the summer as their workshop for making glass beads. It was to be our living quarters. I was fascinated by the many small, colorful beads, abundant in the cracks between the boards of the floor. Later on, they showed me how glass beads were made. It was the industry and local economy of the area.
I was now January of 1945. I was enrolled in the local school. Winter had come, we had gotten some warm clothes from local folks. Kids were playing on a little hill and sliding down on skies. I joined in and was able to borrow a single ski. After many tumbles I succeeded in sliding down on that one ski – nowadays we would call that snowboarding.
In school one of my activities was to put together a plane from cardboard cutouts. I remember being praised for my accomplishment and being told that I would make a good engineer one day. A prediction that would indeed come true.
The days went on and the war was coming to that area as well. Once again it was time to flee. Once again we were shown to a train, this time, however, we boarded not boxcars but passenger cars. There was some juggling of the train, some cars were disconnected, including ours. We were rushed to other cars. Before we could board my mother discovered that I did not have her handbag that I had been charged to take care of while she contended with my brothers. The conductor yielded to her demands that we go back to the earlier car. I found her purse and we boarded the last train to take civilians out of the Sudetenland.
This time our route was to the south. We came to a city and were told this was the end of the line. Another strange town, I don’t remember the name. As we were standing outside the railway station, with nowhere to go, I heard a cry, “Lenche!” – my mom’s nickname from back in Schowe (the local diminutive for Magdalena). A neighbor who had fled with us on another wagon recognized her. By sheer coincidence most of the Showeer refugees had wound up just outside that town and several people had come in to buy some necessities. After some hugs they showed us the way to meet out with our relatives. They decided to continue their shopping tasks. A fatal decision. Shortly after we got out of town a devastating air attack leveled the area. We would never see those neighbors again.
But we had found and rejoined up with our relatives and their wagon. They were also headed south and we wound up in a small town called Milleschitz, some distance north of Wien (Vienna, Austria). Here the war front would catch up with us. It was now April or May 1945 as best as I can remember. Russians came through. I have some memories of the events that I cannot bear to write down. But one incident changed things for us profoundly. Our horses were in a field grazing. I had been assigned to keep watch over them. Something had attracted my attention, and I was some distance from the horses when a group of Russian soldiers came by and rounded up the horses. There was nothing I could do to keep them from taking the horses. The grownups had some scolding words for me but they realized our plight. Somehow, they managed to barter for horses so we could continue on our trek. We were told the war was over and the adults decided to head back home.
We came through the bombed outskirts of Wien and headed south. After days of travelling, we came to Nagy Harsany in Hungary and were told that we could go no farther. Our homes were no more. Our relatives and neighbors had been rounded up and thrown into concentration camps – where most perished. Our villages, homes and possessions had been taken confiscated. Much later I learned that my grandfather had been murdered and my mother’s mom had starved to death in the camp in Jarek.
A Hungarian family with a small farm took us in. On several occasions we had to hide in the loft of their shed while Russian soldiers came through. Many other Donauschwaben had been rounded up and taken away. There was no going home and there was no future for us in Hungary. The conditions were difficult. A runaway inflation made matters worse. The Hungarian pengő had become worthless. I remember one Saturday wanting to go see a movie with my brother Fritz. Somebody gave us some bills, two million pengő. Alas, it was not enough to pay for the movie. The proprietor let us in anyway.
It was now the summer of 1945. I remember seeing a newspaper headline that included “atom bomb”, I could not understand Hungarian and could not understand the rest, but soon learned what had happened. The war was now over everywhere. We could not continue to stay. The adults decided to once again load up and head north to Austria.
We made our way to a town in Austria at the edge of the Russian controlled part. I do not remember the name. The adults wanted to go on the British occupied area. They bartered the horses and wagon for bribes for the Russians to let us through. They also realized the risk in trusting the Russian and so, with just a few bundles of possessions we set out on foot on out-of-the-way footpaths through the mountains avoiding the roads – and the Russians.
Once in the British zone we got back to the road and were shortly taken to a refugee camp, a large school house surrounded by a large chain-link fence. There were many refugees but I don’t recall anyone from our village. Many were trying to find relatives and there was a lively exchange of information. People would write inquiring notes on small pieces of paper and stick them into the fence. People outside would take the notes and make inquiries. I don’t know how it worked but we learned that my father had would up in another refugee camp in Vöcklabruck closer to the border of Germany.
One day the adults had wrangled permission to take us kids to a movie in town. They tossed our small bundles of possession over the fence at an out-of-sight place, and once outside the fence retrieved them and we were on our way. I don’t recall how we travelled but we got to Vöcklabruck and the refugee camp there. My dad had talked the authorities into making him the camp cook. He was now the best-known person in camp. He had never cooked a meal before but rounded up a number of women who did the cooking, his job was rounding up the ingredients.
Our little family of five was now together again. The Lahm family was with us. We were the only ones there from our village, I believe.
In time we would continue our way to Germany – but that is a story for another day.