Refugee

ROLF

One

Finsbury Migrant Hostel South Australia―1950

It was dark, Rolf slept, rolling around in his bed, dreaming the same dream.

He felt pain in his head - what the hell? He was scared - fear descended on him like a thick cloud that seemed to clutch at him as his heart raced.

Control your fear. Think, think! What did he know? He had no idea what was happening; maybe they were trying to kill him.

'Don't make me go,' Rolf begged.

The boy’s trusting eyes immersed his father in a warm embrace leaving him feeling contented and fulfilled in his euphoria.

But the dream changed to a nightmare.

Tobruk, with the Devil standing over him. Rolf’s eyes locked onto the apparition's eyes that were glowing like twin lights.

The bayonet!!!

The Devil smashed the butt of his rifle into Rolf’s head. He sat up screaming, his eyes open. The sound of the battlefield continued in his head.

‘Die you Hitler shit,’ yelled the Devil, ‘die you Hitler shit.’

Rolf woke and clamped his hands over his ears then jumped off the bed, still screaming and ran from his bed, his face distorted in fear. The sound of the battlefield ceased, but the voice continued, ‘Die you Hitler shit. Die you Hitler shit.’

He slammed into the closed door and collapsed on the floor, whimpering. The shock brought him back to reality, but fear continued to make him shake.

Rolf shouted, ‘Lass mich in Ruhe. Lass mich in Ruhe,’ while other men in the hut cursed in Polish.

‘You’re speaking German, Nazi bastard. What’s wrong with you?’ shouted a man in Polish.

Rolf lifted his head, ‘Sorry, nightmare,’ he replied in Polish then crawled on his hands and knees back to his bed staring at the ceiling too frightened to go to sleep in case the Devil returned. Slowly his terror subsided, and he remembered he had shouted, leave me alone, in German at the top of his voice. Fear of discovery returned.

His mind drifted back to his arrival at sun-drenched Outer Harbour, Adelaide's deep-sea port and his relief at finally reaching his destination.

Two

Rolf stood near the top of the gangplank watching passengers, mostly refugees like him, mill around ready to disembark onto the wharf. His face had a worried look showing all the tragedy that had been in his life since Tobruk. He wanted to forget it and look forward. He looked down at the gap between the ship and the wharf hoping this new country would help him to stop remembering his past.

The sound of the lapping sea had a rhythm that Rolf heard intermittently when the noise of the passengers abated. The low sheds running along the wharf gave the impression of a country town more than the gateway to a city. Rolf guessed the larger building was the passenger terminal.

The signs were good, he thought, he didn’t want to settle in a big city. Adelaide looked to be ideal. Rolf had to tell so many lies to get onto the ship; he hoped his masquerade of pretending to be Polish would not be discovered. He didn’t speak the Polish language like a native even though he had spent two years there.

Australian authorities had interviewed him in Paris. His documents identified him as Friedrich Wielun which, he hoped would make it easier to be accepted as a refugee. Rolf’s face clouded over at the thought of his friend Friedrich. He hoped he could live up to his name.

The arrival of an immigrant ship was a big occasion for South Australia given the people on board had chosen to settle amongst the citizens of their fine state. However, given the importance of new workers arriving to overcome the shortage of labour, it was surprising only a few decided to welcome them.

The funnel belched smoke while tugs maneuvered the ship into the wharf. Sailors, forward and aft, threw large hawsers to men ashore securing the people to their new home in a symbolic connection.

Passengers, men, including Rolf women and children―milled around in subdued excitement mixed with trepidation as they considered their decision to set up life in a new country and, in the process, leaving behind loved ones. Men had dressed in coats and trousers, some in shirtsleeves. Women wore dresses or skirts, some with coats. More than half the passengers were children of all ages. Many teenage girls and boys, as well as younger children, stared at the buildings on the wharf. It was difficult to gauge how they felt about their new country.

A swarthy passenger glared at Rolf. Anger showed in the man's eyes. Did this person have a problem? Rolf thought he could be Jewish and decided not to be over sensitive.

Rolf’s tragic past was raising its ugly head in the present again; he wanted to scream, the war is over. The Allies had punished the people they deemed war criminals, and their anger had diminished. They had taken over their former enemies’ countries and were in charge, and the world marched in step to their drum. Everyone must rebuild after the war. The madness must not continue, the killers had engorged for years, and the world now hoped their bloodlust was satisfied.

Unfortunately, someone always basked in the reflected glory that the Allied victory provided and reminded the defeated how marvellous the victors were because they happened to choose the winning side. Luckily, most people had decided to get on with coping with the new world order.

Laughter filtered up from the gangplank as the refugees descended, full of expectation that their life would be better in Australia after the European disaster. Rolf watched a tall man with a redheaded woman and a small boy who looked like the couple’s son, hurry down the gangplank.

Rolf had survived the insanity of war, even though pain reminded him of his wounds and his heartbreak over the loss of loved ones. He had decided on a fresh start in a new country with people he did not know. He would change and adapt, he told himself, or the decision to abandon Germany and his roots would be a mistake.

Already he was living a lie when he took the name Freidrich Wielun to pass as Polish. His escape from Europe had proven easier than with his true nationality.

The refugees mingled in a terminal where they took refreshments. Rolf tried to be alone and not mix with the passengers. A woman attempted to gain his attention, and they spoke for a while. In the end, he moved outside for a cigarette to avoid associating with the immigrants from the ship. His identity as Friedrich Wielun, a Polish National, would be easy to see through and he felt uncomfortable especially when speaking Polish.

Refugees climbed into buses and were driven away from Outer Harbour towards Pennington Migrant Hostel. They travelled from the wharf towards temporary accommodation at the hostel where they would stay until they found a job and moved into conventional housing.

Rolf sat at the back and watched the passengers pointing through the windows as they left Outer Harbour’s precinct and the bus travelled through large tracts of vacant land.

He noticed some travellers pointing towards the east. A cargo ship appeared as if it was sailing on land. He stared until he realised the vessel must be in a large river as it headed towards an inland port.

Undamaged buildings told Rolf bombs had not rained down on the people of South Australia. He noticed remnants of unused air raid shelters.

They crossed over the Port River where they watched small ships sailing up and down under an opening bridge. Stevedores loaded several large ships giving the impression of a port full of activity. Over the river, the bus drove through the large settlement of Port Adelaide with busy roads and shops.

Rolf wondered how he would adjust to life in this country, his inner spirits lifted in anticipation, although a little worried at how he would cope.

The bus drove along a wide road eventually turning into the hostel. Rolf's high spirits nose-dived when he saw that his new home consisted of large water tanks cut in half. Six rows of curved corrugated iron sheds gave the camp a look of silver arches disappearing into the ground. Towards the camp’s rear were more huts made in the conventional shape of a square building with gable roofs. A large open channel ran through the site where children played in the dirt.

The refugees left the bus with their belongings and hurried into a hut where government officials interviewed them, filled in forms and allocated quarters which contained at least sixteen beds, eight each side.

Authorities separated men from women―even married couples lived in different huts. All immigrants dined together in a large hall.

After he had entered the hut, Rolf relaxed and leant against the door-frame, smoking a cigarette watching other residents walk past. Many refugees had suffered during the war, but despite their experiences, there was a new-found optimism in this modern promised-land.

A different man glared at Rolf, 'Nazi dog!' he vented in Polish. Rolf sighed as the abuser hurried away. Sadness engulfed him, and he felt doubtful about his prospects in this country. Some refugees had already seen through his Polish disguise and labelled him a Nazi.

However, Rolf knew he had to deal with prejudice to survive and that some immigrants would never forgive Germany and by association the German people.

Three

Rolf woke to pressure on his shoulder―he tried to ignore it, but the hand persisted.

‘Get up!’ A voice demanded in Polish; three angry men stared at him.

‘Sorry, terrible night - the war - couldn’t sleep - nightmare.'

'Bad memories ... the people you killed are haunting you?' a man suggested.

'I never killed anyone,' Rolf lied.

‘We must talk,’ said another man.

Rolf gazed at the ceiling and rolled over wanting to avoid his accusers and pretended to go back to sleep, although all his senses were alerted when he recognised the men's attitudes. How he handled, these men could be pivotal to his acceptance in this new country. His ruse of rolling over and pretending to sleep would not work, but he needed time to think about his situation. The Polish men had every reason to hate Germany. He would not get away with pretending to be a countryman. He decided not to make any decisions and go with his instincts.

A man grabbed Rolf's shirt and yanked him up, 'Nazi filth!’

Rolf opened his eyes to stare at the angry men, ‘What! What’s this?’

‘Nazi murderer! Go away and never come back,’ another man demanded.

'Who are you?' Rolf asked.

'I'm Stefan. This is Janek and Wincent. We are Polish. We suffered at the hands of you Germans.'

'So, did I! The Nazis tried to kill me,' said Rolf as he pulled away angrily. The only way to handle his accusers was to tell them how much he had suffered at the hands of the Nazis. Rolf had much more in common with these Polish men than with many of his countrymen.

Stefan took the role of spokesman. Rolf noticed despair showing through their anger; like many Europeans, they had a hint of sadness about them.

‘You’re not Polish,’ Stefan declared. 'You speak Polish with a German accent.'

'You yelled in German last night,' Wincent accused.

'You’re a dirty Nazi; get out! We will kill you,’ Janek emphasised.

Rolf’s head dropped. He had told lies for so long he took a few seconds to remember the truth.

Janek’s angry face moved closer to Rolf, 'Get out!'

‘I’m not a Nazi,’ Rolf declared.

Stefan glared, 'Don’t try to tell us you’re Polish, we know you’re not.'

Rolf lifted his head, ‘Not all Germans are Nazis. Many suffered under the SS butchers; they tried to kill me―I'm lucky to be alive. I’m a deserter from the Wehrmacht and changed my name to stay alive.'

'Liar,' yelled Janek.

The Polish men stalked out.

'I told you the truth,' Rolf shouted after them. ‘I have lost as much and maybe more than you. If you come back, I will tell you.’

Rolf lay on his bed worried he would be sent back to Germany, unsure how to make these men believe him. Stefan was the obvious leader of the group. If he convinced him, his friends would follow.

The men returned. Stefan pulled up a chair while Janek and Wincent sat on Rolf’s bed. 

'Your lies worked. The authorities won't shift you; their records show you're Polish and the SS wanted to arrest you. They said you are not a Nazi.'

'Correct. But the authorities think I'm Friedrich Wielun. You're right; I'm German...my name is Rolf Krieger; I'm not sure you'll understand. I did what I had to, to survive. The English wanted me dead; the Italian Militia tried to kill me. The SS and German Police almost killed me many times. I felt as if the whole world wanted me dead and they almost succeeded.

‘My story starts when my family arrived back in Germany after working in Poland with my father who was a carpenter. I was his apprentice.'

Four

Dresden Germany―1935

Nazi Party flags fluttered in the breeze from many vantage points; a few grey uniformed soldiers mixed in with the walkers on the footpath. The bus drove along the street as Rolf watched people and vehicles hurrying with purpose towards their destinations. From his seat next to his father, he could feel the excitement, anticipation and pride in the air.

The German people were no longer lamenting the state of their country. Adolf Hitler was defiant. Germany had become strong and vibrant again and had broken the chains of the old reparations. His country was weaving a future from a turbulent past and had become an exciting place with the Hitler government in power. Rolf was glad his family hadn’t stayed in Poland.

Evening approached as they returned from work to alight opposite their old two-story house, set close to the street behind a small garden―fresh paint could not mask the dilapidated nineteenth-century building. They walked up the steps and Dieter, his father, opened the door with his key.

Rolf’s mother called as they entered, ‘There is a letter for you, Rolf.’

He picked it up and sat at the kitchen table while his mother continued cutting vegetables for the evening meal. In the year since he had returned to Germany, he had received many letters from Ania in Poland, where Rolf had worked for two years. Recently they had become less frequent and shorter. He opened the envelope.

The message in the letter made his body tense, and he felt numbing tightness in his chest.

His father entered the kitchen and looked at his son.

‘Ania has married someone else,’ said Rolf accusingly. ‘She couldn’t wait for me.’

‘Then marry a German girl,’ said Dieter. ‘There are plenty of attractive ones who would make a good wife.’

His mother placed her knife on the sink and sat next to her son and took his hand in sympathy. Rolf glared at his father and threw down the torn envelope that had brought the letter he still held in his hand.

Ania was the girl for him, and he hated leaving her in Poland.

Later, in the crowded Klub drinkers lined the bar and sat at tables placed around the walls; Rolf lifted his lager to his mouth and drank deeply. At first, he had been angry with his father and then with himself. He should have gone to Poland to see Ania. But he had filled his life with being a member of Hitler’s Labour Service to stop him thinking about her when they were so far apart.

Rolf slammed the empty stein down much harder than he had intended. A man at the table put his hand out to steady him. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he said.

‘Not yet I can still stand up!’

A waitress approached, Rolf handed her the stein, and she returned, placing the drink on the table.

‘You’re very pretty,’ he slurred, ‘what’s your name?’

‘Ilse,’ she said as she walked away.

Rolf lifted his drink; his eyes glazed and he felt light-headed as the stein dropped from his fingers.

Later he awoke, not sure how long it had been before he noticed the light filtering through the torn blind; his head ached, and he remembered the bar. He was in a room on a couch with a blanket covering him. His bootless feet were hanging over the end. He sat up, but the pain in his head forced a groan from him as he placed his head in his hands. A face flashed into his mind; not Ania but another face with soft, friendly eyes that looked at him in pity—the waitress. What was her name? He couldn’t remember.

Rolf forced himself to put his boots on and despite his aching head and nausea managed to stand. There was a door, it opened easily, and he staggered out into a laneway. His stomach heaved, and he was sick. The room must have been at the back of the Klub, he thought. He had to look for a bus. He felt for his wallet it had gone with all his money. He cursed as he set out on the long walk home.

Two nights later Rolf entered the Klub again hoping someone might know who took his wallet. At least that was the reason he gave his father who was still ranting about how stupid he had been. He could not get the face of the waitress out of his mind; he wanted to see her again.

She smiled at him from behind the bar, ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘How are you now?’

‘Better, thank you.’

‘I have something of yours,’ she reached under the bar and produced his wallet. ‘I thought I’d better rescue this before someone stole it. I wanted to give it back to you before you left, but I missed you.’

‘I thought I had lost it.’

‘I didn’t take any money.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t, thank you,’ he said as he slipped it into his pocket with immense relief.

‘I’m Ilse. I know you’re Rolf, I saw your name in your wallet.’ Rolf decided she was pretty but not beautiful like Ania; he liked the way her eyes seemed to smile.

‘Did you put the blanket on me?’

‘Yes, the barman and I carried you to the back room,’ Ilse’s eyes were appraising him as she smiled, ‘you were heavy.’

‘Do you do that for all the drunks?’

‘You looked sad; I didn’t want to call the police or put you out on the street.’ Patrons were trying to attract her attention, so she moved down the bar and served them, then returned to Rolf.

‘I can’t talk to you unless you buy a drink, the boss is looking.’

‘I’ll have a lager.’ She poured the drink and placed it on the bar.

‘Don’t drink too much,’ she said as she flashed him a smile that Rolf thought contained a hint of promise.

‘Can I take you out?’ he asked.

‘I see too many drunks to go out with one ... it’s late I’m tired.’

‘I’m not a drunk. I was upset because my girlfriend dumped me. Drinking helped to make her face go away. Do you get time off?’ he asked.

‘On Sunday, but I usually sleep.’

‘Do you like the pictures?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘I’ll keep asking you until you go with me.’

‘You’ll just have to keep asking me then.’

After three more visits to the Klub and showing he could remain sober she agreed to go to the movies with him. Ilse looked different when she opened her door and walked happily out into the street. She smiled at Rolf and took his hand; he thought the summer dress she wore showed off her slim figure much better than the Klub uniform.

The crowded theatre foyer made Rolf push past people when he bought tickets, and an usher showed them to their seats. When the lights went down, he felt like placing his arm around her, but it was too early he decided. Instead, he took her hand, and she smiled at him over the edge of her drink.

When she had finished drinking, he tentatively placed his arm around her, she looked at his face, and he kissed her gently on the lips as she snuggled closer. This time, when they kissed, it was more urgent, and she placed her arm around him. He felt her body pressing into him as they watched the film in each other’s arms. 

At Ilse’s house, she made Rolf supper. They sat on a lounge chair and listened to the radio, he put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. He tried to touch her breasts, but she pushed his hand away.

Two weeks later, while dining at Ilse’s flat, he told her he was a member of the Labour Service.

‘Have you joined the Nazi Party?’

‘No ... my father has, he tells me it is my duty. But I don’t want to be a soldier. The Fuhrer will make Germany great again without me in the Army.’

‘I’m glad.’

Rolf took Ilse in his arms and placed her face next to his, ‘Why are you glad?’ he asked.

‘You’d have to go away.’

He was falling in love but wasn’t sure how she felt. She kissed him on the cheek he kissed her on the lips they slipped off the couch onto the floor in an embrace of love.

Rolf visited Ilse almost every day. She met Rolf’s parents. Three months later, she told him she was having his baby.

Five

Dresden Germany―1940

Rolf alighted from the bus wearing the uniform of a Wehrmacht soldier. Entering his front gate, he walked around the side to a set of stairs, ran up them and unlocked the door. His anticipation of being with Ilse had been building for days. The excitement of his animated four-year-old son racing into his arms delighted him when he squatted to Willem’s level, ‘Da Da,’ the child cried.

‘How’s my little soldier?’ said Rolf scooping him up in his arms.

By this time, Ilse had appeared with Hetta, their two-year-old daughter. It was his first home leave after eight weeks of training.

‘Are they sending you away?’ asked Ilse.

‘I have two weeks leave then I’ll be going.’

‘Where?’

‘They won’t tell us.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

Rolf put his son down, took his daughter from Ilse's arms, placed her on the floor and took his wife’s hands in his.

‘I’ll come home because I’m not doing anything dangerous; I look after the ammunition for a machine gun, that’s all.’

‘Don’t be a hero.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I listened to the Führer’s speech last night. He thinks the war will be over soon,’ she said.

‘My unit listened as well.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I hope he’s right and the war will end quickly.’

‘We have two weeks to forget the war,’ said Rolf. ‘It’s a beautiful day; the bands are playing in the park.’

Six

Tripoli Libya―March 1941

Rolf marched through the streets with the thousands of soldiers of the Deutsches Africa Korps. He looked down the marching line and felt a rush of excitement and pride as his unit saluted the task force commander, General Italo Garibaldi and Lieutenant-General Erwin Rommel, who stood on a raised platform casually saluting the units as they marched past. Behind Rolf, the rumble of tanks echoed off the buildings that lined the road with the stink of fuel wafting into the air. He thought no one could defeat these fighting men and machines. The locals were impressed by the show of strength.

The marching column reached the outskirts of Tripoli where they halted and fell out. Rolf walked back towards the city to watch the tanks and artillery rumble past.

‘Don’t go too far,’ said Corporal Otto Ruprecht, ‘we have to travel today.’

The heat of the North African desert made conditions stifling in the back of the truck. Rolf sweated as the dust clouded behind them. The men sitting with him were huddled into tight groups as they tried to keep the choking dust out of their lungs, thankful for the canvas cover because it kept them out of the direct blazing sun and stopped some dirt from entering.

Rolf was attached to the infantry as part of a four-man machine gun crew.

‘Is this it, Otto? Action? What did the officers tell you? I’m sick of travelling and doing nothing.’

‘I bet you will shit yourself in action. I hope you brought a change of underpants; you’d better stick your pants legs in your jackboots so that the shit won’t run on the ground.’ Otto slapped Rolf playfully on the head; we are going to kick the Englanders out of Mersa el Brega,’ he said.

Seven

Mersa el Brega North Africa―March 1941

The darkened town reflected in the moonlight as Corporal Otto Ruprecht's section closed in to attack