-CHAPTER ONE-

Germany

I was born during the turmoil of the First World War in Bonn Germany, the city which has been ever famous as the birthplace of the Great Maestro Ludwig Van Beethoven. Perhaps it is for this reason that my life has been one of such turmoil and adventure; who knows? My family were all staunch Roman Catholics, and good German citizens; very proper and correct in all areas of their lives, and, of course, I was to be raised within the Roman church, as was our tradition. We were relatively well-to-do, my father being a marine engineer, so we had a large, comfortable two-story house, with servants and all. We never lacked for food, or the other niceties of life. I am afraid, though, that I have always been a bit of a problem for my parents, although I have sincerely tried to do my best for them; there was however, conflict, as I did not see things from their perspective, and was always headstrong and stubborn. I did though, try my best, that is up to a certain point in my life, as you will see. I shall start this tale at the time when, at the age of four, a very singular event took place, one that was to influence me for the rest of my life. The time was in the closing days of the First World War, that terrible "war to end all wars" as it was called. An ammunition factory which was near our village exploded one day, no doubt the act of saboteurs, or a tragic accident. Many hundreds of innocent workers in the factory were killed in the explosion, and the terrible blast shook the neighboring villages as though a major earthquake had occurred, breaking windows and shattering crockery. At the time, I was alone on the upper floor of our house; my father was away on business, and my mother had gone to market to do her shopping. The housemaid who was supposed to be watching me was nowhere to be seen. What a splendid opportunity this was to climb up to the window sill and gaze out at the world below from the lofty height of the second floor! As I was peering down into the chasm below, the shock wave from the exploding ammunition factory struck our house. I was hurled from the window to the stone pavement of the courtyard below. I can still remember the strange feeling that I was falling in slow motion; I will also never forget the terrified face of Mrs. Kruger, our next door neighbor, leaning out from her window and screaming. I called upon my Guardian Angel to save me, and then suddenly landed directly in the middle of a large wash basket full of clothes that the maid had left outside. I was stunned, but otherwise unhurt. Nevertheless, I was knocked unconscious by the shock, and was out for several minutes. When I regained consciousness, I found myself lying on the bed in the room of a nurse who was staying with us. By the time my mother had returned from her shopping, I had apparently recovered from my accident, and was feeling no ill effects. My mother was shocked at the terrible blast from the factory, and appalled at the terrible loss of life. My near accident had also upset her. Everyone exclaimed that it was indeed a miracle that I had not been killed, or seriously injured. A few days later some very strange things began to happen to me. First, I started talking in my sleep, but is a language unknown either to myself or any of my family. I was unconscious of doing this, and had no memory of it when I awoke. In my dreams I tried to understand what I was saying, but to no avail. The language was unknown even to me. I awoke one time to find a group of people standing around my bed; my father, the nurse, our pastor and the schoolmaster. They were all staring at me in amazement. I remember the schoolmaster saying: "He is not speaking Latin, perhaps it is Russian." My mother and father were astounded: "What? The boy is only four", said my father, "He cannot even read or write German yet; how could he speak in a foreign tongue.....nonsense!" The Pastor and the schoolmaster, however, insisted that I was speaking a language, and not mere gibberish. For several weeks I continued to talk in the strange language, and to experience strange dreams of unknown places. Always, when I later awakened, I could not repeat a single word. Now, years later, my conclusion is that when I fell from the window to the pavement, certain centers in my brain, where the memories of past lives are stored, were jarred, thus bringing these memories to the surface. This has happened to me several times since this accident, and I have always had some sort of recall of my past lives. Our mind is a universe in itself, and all things are stored therein; all of our past experiences stretching back to the beginning of the universe, if there was such a beginning. We all are incredibly ancient. Upon our so-called death, our spiritual "ego" takes possession of a new body, and this marvelous storehouse of past knowledge goes with it. It is fortunate, however, that we are normally unable to remember these past experiences, as our minds would be terribly cluttered if that were the case; cluttered with trivia. Also, it would be most unpleasant and terrifying to have to relive some of the more unpleasant past experiences, such as violent death, loss of loved ones, or what. It was many years later before I finally found the answer to this mystery. In 1942, while serving in the German Navy, I visited Riga, which was the capitol of Latvia. Here I actually discovered that the language that I had been speaking was Latvian! I had been Latvian in one of my previous lives. I felt quite at home while walking the streets of Riga, as if I had returned home after a long absence. Unfortunately, however, I did not have the time to become reacquainted with the language, or to search for clues to my former identity. As I have said before, my father was a business man of very good reputation, and, as he was a good Catholic, I grew up in an atmosphere of strict Catholicism. Monks and priests were forever visiting our house, and the entire family attended mass several times each week. I naturally became influenced by this environment, and soon acquired the Roman Catholic spirit. At the age of ten I entered a monastery with the firm intention of becoming a monk, and later a missionary. The monastery I had chosen, or rather the one my father chose for me, was also a high school, and a seminary for future priests. The atmosphere there was one of strict orthodoxy, and absolutely no foolishness was tolerated. my mother and father, however, were allowed to visit me frequently, as I had not yet taken my vows as a monk. Actually, though, I was soon disappointed with the monastic life, and entertained thoughts of running away to freedom. Now, looking back on my experiences, it seems cruel to inflict such harsh discipline upon a normal freedom loving ten year old. I did not run away at the time, however, as I knew that such an act would cause great mental anguish to my parents, and cause them to lose prestige in our community. The monastery was a spiritual concentration camp! No original thought was allowed; all must be in accordance with strict Catholic doctrine. I need not elaborate, nor set down my experiences here; suffice it to say that I soon lost my Catholic zeal, and could only think about escape from such narrow-mindedness and bigotry. There were islands of serenity there, though; I liked one part of the monastery very much; the public museum. We had a rather large collection of Buddhist art objects from China, Japan and Mongolia, along with other objects from Australia and Africa which had all been collected by the missionaries. I was very fond of visiting the museum, more so than the church, and spent every minute that I could squeeze from my limited free time in there. In the part of the museum that I especially liked, there was housed a marvelous statue of the Buddha Amitabha, the Buddha of Boundless Light, sitting in the meditation pose. This statue was a copy of the famous Dai-butsu of Kamakura, Japan. The museum also contained a very beautiful standing figure of the female Bodhisattva (future Buddha) Kuan-Shih- Yin, the so-called Goddess of Love and Mercy. She stood serenely in a corner, holding a lotus flower and rose in her hands. Her long, flowing robe represented symbolically the blowing wind of Samsara (the round of life, death and rebirth). I was captivated by the serenity of the Buddha's face and the stainless beauty of the Goddess. An incredible sense of complete happiness went through my entire being whenever I stood in front of the figures. Now, later, I am sure that this feeling of bliss was a subconscious remembrance of my past lives. The Lord Buddha Amitabha comforted me and the Goddess Kuan-Shih-Yin beamed motherly love into my lonely heart. I spent several years in the monastery, which was an eternity for a young, freedom-loving boy. I was a young man by the time I finally decided to leave the monastic life. I probably would not have left then, if it had not been for an event that tried my patience to the breaking point. I had been visiting my parent's home when I decided to browse in the University book store in Boon, where I purchased an old Lutheran Bible, a Bible which all Catholics are forbidden to even read. I took the Bible back to the monastery, with the intention of reading it in secret. Alas, I was soon caught, and the Bible confiscated by an over- zealous "inquisitor" who called it "a heretical Lutheran scripture". If we had been living in the middle ages I have no doubt that I would have been burned at the stake, so incensed was the zealot at my "heresy". I decided then and there to leave the monastery, and to break off my studies, no matter what the cost to me or my family. I simply could not withstand the intolerance and absence of intellectual freedom there; I felt as if they were putting my mind in a straight jacket. I yearned to pursue my own course, to let my mind soar, to study all philosophies, not to just confine myself to the narrow Catholic outlook, and their unrealistic interpretation of the universe. I left the monastery, and joined the International Scouting movement, making many journeys throughout Europe in the service of Scouting. Later, I became a rather prominent leader in the Scouting movement, and when Hitler came to power in 1933 I was forced to go "underground". All youth movements, except the Hitler Youth, were banned by the National Socialist Government, and their members persecuted.

CHAPTER TWO

Flight From Germany

Shortly after the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, I made a lengthy tour through the Southern European countries. While traveling in Italy I had learned that the German authorities had rescinded the tourist tax called the "Thousand Mark Barrier" that they had set up earlier to discourage travel to Austria. I had long wanted to visit that beautiful country, and immediately set out for the border. I particularly wanted to visit the beautiful city of Innsbruck in the Tyrol. So, I wandered on foot, stick in hand, up the Brenner Pass, taking an entire day on the way and enjoying the incredible beauty of the Tyrolean Alps. The weather, however, was terrible; rainy and overcast; but I enjoyed the scenery in spite of the discomfort. The majestic snow-clad mountains seemed to take on an additional dignity in the gloomy weather. I had no difficulty entering Austria. I traveled to Innsbruck by bus, and spent the night in a youth hostel. These hostels were, and still are, found in most European countries. They give shelter to wandering youths from everywhere at a modest price. I spent the next day sight-seeing in the famous city; famous for being the birthplace of Andreas Hofer, the Austrian freedom-fighter who was executed by the French occupation forces of Napoleon in 1810. The next morning I returned to Germany by way of Kufstein, a small town with a splendid medieval castle on its hill top. Unfortunately I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the scenery, however, as I was immediately arrested upon crossing the German border. The over-zealous border guard explained that, although my passport was valid, it did not contain the proper stamp from the police in my district stating that I was a "pure person", or Aryan (in other words, an adherent to the Nazi Party). I hadn't known of this regulation, and I would soon pay for my ignorance. I was placed in handcuffs, thrown into the back of a police van, and taken to the police station in Rosenheim for interrogation. At the police station I was ushered into a small windowless room. My interrogator, a balding heavy set man of fifty, cleared his throat peremptorily, and asked in a thick Bavarian accent: "Are you a Jew?" "No sir", I answered. Then the questioning went on and on......... "Where were you born?"......."Are you a Communist?"...."Why aren't you in the Hitler Youth?" ...on and on for nearly an hour. Finally the interrogation ended with a whispered conference among the three policemen. Seemingly satisfied that I was completely harmless, they released me. One of the policemen escorted me to the railway station to make sure that I got on the train instead of staying in Rosenheim. I reached home the next evening without further incident. A few days after my return home, I received an invitation to visit the local Gestapo headquarters! This was not, however, the first time I had received such an "Invitation". I had been called there several times in the past so that they could "test" my nationalistic feelings (of which I had none) and to be scolded for my "mischief making", as they termed it, against the Hitler Youth. The Gestapo had always been unable to present a case against me in the past, as I refused to answer their questions even though they beat me on the hands with sticks and rubber truncheons. They always, in the end, had to release me as they could find no excuse to detain me. As I have stated before, my father was quite well-to-do, and a member of the Nazi party, so they could not afford to be too harsh with me. My brother and sister had already been forced into the Hitler Youth, but I was already too old for that, the age limit being 18. This time, however, they beat me quite soundly. I returned home from the "visit" with a broken nose, split lip, and missing two heretofore healthy teeth. They also confiscated my passport, so it was impossible for me to travel abroad again. This bothered me much more than the beating, as I had planned to travel again. I had just about decided to leave my native country for good, or for at least as long as the Nazi beasts were in power. Now, without a passport, this was impossible. So, characteristically, I returned home and made plans to leave the country anyway. Everything was going sour, and my situation looked very dark indeed. My family bonds were loosening, especially after the death of my mother, who had passed on at the early age of 48. My father could not bear to live alone with us children, so he remarried very soon after mother's death, much to our disapproval, and to the disgust of the other family members. Our home was full of friction and tension. I was extremely tired of all the bickering, and this incident with the Gestapo was the last straw, so to speak. I decided to flee the country no matter what the cost. I always kept a small suitcase packed with various items for use in an emergency, so, without bidding my family farewell, I left home and went to a secret underground headquarters that we Scouts had built for use in the event that encountered difficulties during our struggles with the Hitler Youth. This underground hideout was so cleverly concealed that it would have been virtually impossible for any outsider to discover it. Naturally, none of my fellow Scouts would have even considered betraying me. We were Scouts, but we were no longer boys; the youngest of us was already past sixteen, and some were twenty-five and over. I left a note in the hideout stating that I was going to visit "Aunt Isabella" for some time. This was a code that we had worked out earlier; "Aunt Isabella" meant that I was going to Spain, and "for some time" meant that I would be gone for several years. We also had secret personal names that were known to our Scout movement, and to some movements in foreign countries. My secret Scout name was a great help when I escaped to Sweden in 1944, and settled in that country. I left our village and hiked some twenty-five kilometers, finally reaching a small railway station on the main line leading to Hamburg. I decided it would finally be safe to ride the train instead of walking, so I bought a ticket to Stuttgart, arriving in that city the following afternoon. After eating lunch in the train station restaurant, I caught the express train, and arrived near the Austrian border the following morning. My plan had been to cross the border into Austria, but, to my dismay, I found that units of the German Army were conducting maneuvers all along the area where I had planned to cross. My intention had been to cross into Austria, travel through Switzerland and on into France, eventually reaching Spain. I thought it best to take this long route because I feared that the French border would be more heavily guarded than the other sections, and there would undoubtedly be more military activity in that area. My first plan had failed, but luckily I still had some money left. I caught the train to the city of Karlsruhe in the Province of Baden, very close to the French border. After a nights journey I arrived in Karlsruhe, and registered in a small, comfortable hotel named "Zur Rose". I had to avoid the youth hostels at all cost, as they were frequently raided by "press gangs" for the Hitler Youth, and were under the scrutiny of the Gestapo. As was usual in my younger days, I soon found a companion for the evening; a beautiful golden haired nurse from a children's home. We went to the cinema together; ironically, the title of the film was "The Ride Into Freedom", a very prophetic title for me.

CHAPTER THREE

Lost in the Woods

Ursula was indeed a very charming and beautiful girl, with clouds of shimmering, golden hair falling to her waist, and immense blue eyes together with a most sweet and unassuming manner. I was quite taken with her, and even considered for a moment remaining in Karlsruhe and settling down. But, then I thought, settling down to a good "Burghers"life, with house and children, would be dull, drab, and uneventful...this cannot be for me. Besides, I still had the Gestapo to contend with. I would not be able to stand such a quiet, drab life; not being able to express my own ideas, not being able to follow my ideals. Life in Germany during this period was horrible; naked, unabashed slavery: the crudest dictatorship imaginable, even though the rest of the world could not see it. The Nazis were extremely clever; Hitler and his henchmen knew how to employ propaganda so that the tourists from abroad saw only what the Government wanted them to see, and returned home full of praise for the regime and its miraculous achievements. The foreign tourists did not see the many Gestapo-run prisons and secret concentration camps, of which there were already 27 in 1939, all containing wretched political prisoners. I will relate more about these camps, and my horrible experiences in one, later. Later that night I returned to my hotel, and spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep at all. I felt a deep pain in my heart for my golden haired Ursula, as I was convinced that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and the only one for me.....AH! Such are the dreams of youth. Still, she was of the same age as I, and I am sure she would have made a wonderful wife. But, I did not promise to return, and told her that I would be leaving the country the next day: thereby the episode was over. At daybreak the next morning I left Karlsruhe and wandered on foot over the so-called "Deutsche Weinstrasse" through emerald green hills and lush valleys studded with vineyards. My plan was to cross the border in broad daylight near a small village named Woerth. I decided that noon would be the best time, as most of the local workers, and hopefully the Border Police, would be taking their lunch break in the local taverns. How wrong I was! I crept out of the lush pine forest only one hundred meters from the border only to collide with a green uniformed Border Policeman who promptly jabbed me in the stomach with his machine pistol. "Where are you going?" he shouted; "A deserter, hah?" He jabbed me in the stomach again with the machine pistol, knocking me to my knees. I wretched and vomited in the grass. Next I was kicked in the small of the back, and sent sprawling again. I felt the cold metal of handcuffs on my wrists, and started to struggle, but the pressure of a gun barrel against my temple soon cooled my temper. Another policeman, this one a younger man, arrived, and the two of them hauled me to my feet and marched me roughly down a narrow path to the edge of the woods. I protested that I had only lost my way, but only received a kick in the backside for my efforts. I decided to wait and see what would happen, and also wait for an opportunity to escape. Besides, I could not do much while handcuffed, and my chance for freedom might possibly come when they removed my shackles. I was quite sure, however, that I would safely come through this situation, and that my "Protecting Hand" would not fail me this time. I don't know why I had this feeling, but it has always manifested when I have been in a dangerous predicament, and I have not been wrong yet. Perhaps my fate had more in store for me, or perhaps there are actually guardian beings who watch over us. According to Buddhist, Hindu and Christian beliefs, the human being is surrounded by numerous spirits, both good and evil; all eternally fighting each other to get possession of the individual in question. I am by no means superstitious, but facts are facts, and cannot be brushed aside easily if we adhere to intellectual honesty. We, of course, cannot force anyone to believe as we do, but, also, no one has the right to reject our feelings as untrue simply because they do not fit into their particular system of beliefs. One has to go the way of the mystic, to actually study the deeper truths of life, in order to understand these phenomena which are beyond human experience. There is still much between heaven and earth which we humans do not begin to understand. True understanding is wisdom, but such understanding is not to be had by studying books or earning university degrees, and then having to confess, as Shiva did to his Shakti, that we do not yet understand the essential truth. Wisdom and knowledge are two separate entities, and yet they interact together. Wisdom is the coincidence of knowledge and the skillful means used to employ it. Wisdom is eternal; knowledge without wisdom is ephemeral and transient. We arrived at the police station in Woerth, whereupon I was ushered into a small bare room; the only item of furniture being a low table which was bolted to the far wall. The Border Guard that had struck me in the stomach emptied the contents of my rucksack onto the table. The other policeman removed the handcuffs from my wrists, and instructed me to empty my pockets, place the contents on the table, and then remove my clothing. The two were joined by another officer, who appeared to be their superior. They thoroughly inspected the contents of my rucksack, but apparently found nothing objectionable. Finally, after a thorough body search, I was given back my clothes, and conducted to a small, pitch dark cell. I was rudely thrust inside, and the door was slammed and bolted so fast that I didn't have the opportunity to see the inside of the cell. I cautiously felt my way around the wall, until I barked my shins on what appeared to be the iron frame of a cot. I lay down on the thin straw mattress, and took stock of my situation. I had told the officers that I was on my way to visit some friends in Saarbrucken, which had just recently been returned to the German Reich; would they attempt to call my friends? Would they call the Gestapo? Or would they merely put me in prison as a deserter? After an hour or so, the door suddenly opened; the brilliant light streaming into the cell blinded me. A shadow appeared in the doorway, and another prisoner was thrust into the cell. He went without hesitation to the other bunk and lay down. As nothing was visible in the inky darkness, I immediately became suspicious; could it be that the Border Police had sent an imposter in to unknowingly interrogate me? The other man immediately began to swear in the most foul manner, using words that should not be translated into any other language. He addressed himself to me at length, although I am sure that he could not see me. This furthered my suspicions towards him. I was by now certain that he was a police spy sent into the cell to get information from me, and to determine if it had been my intention to cross the border. He asked me in a gruff voice: "And why are you here?" "I don't know," I stammered. "So you are innocent too, huh? Hahahaha!" "Yes indeed," I replied, "I only lost my way trying to get to a friends house in Saarbrucken, and now they have mistaken me for a deserter." "Don't lie to me," he growled, "I know your type, you were going to France to join the Foreign Legion, just as I was." "No sir," I replied, "I have never had the intention of joining the Foreign Legion. What would I do there? Their life is hell on earth, or so I have heard." "Well," he answered, "you can tell these cops that, but I think I know better. All of you young punks think you can make a fortune for yourself in the Legion." I kept silent after this, even more convinced that he was indeed a policeman sent in to interrogate me in this subtle fashion. He kept talking for a while, until the door was opened again, whereupon he sprang to his feet and dashed from the cell. I was correct in my suspicions. He was indeed a spy! A short while later I was taken from the cell, escorted down a long, bare corridor, and into a small office. An officer in civilian clothing sat behind a cluttered desk. My rucksack lay on the floor under a small barred window. The inspector squinted at me from behind a dense cloud of acrid smoke which issued from a black, vicious looking cigar which he persistently attacked with his jaw, while peering at a sheaf of papers he held in one meaty fist. "Petri," he said, "We have contacted your friends in Saarbrucken, and they are very anxious to see you. You had best make haste, and this time stay away from the border." I was dumbfounded, but had the presence of mind to stammer a "thank you", grab my pack, and hasten out the door into the sunlight. I just could not believe my good fortune; my friends in Saarbrucken had no idea that I was going to visit them. Actually, I hadn't seen them in years, and had made up the story as a "cover" for being in the border area. The same policeman that had arrested me followed me out of the station, all the while giving me advice, and warning me not to stray near the border again. Incredible! The Protecting Hand had worked again. I was free, and with no serious injuries. I marched along the road to Saarbrucken, whistling a Scout song. By that evening I had reached a romantic little town named Bergzabern. There I had dinner in a small wayside inn, and sat in the tiny restaurant until darkness had settled upon the thickly forested hills. By my calculations, the French border should not be far, only seven or eight kilometers. I wrote a postcard to a friend, posted it, and left the inn. I still remember the strange, suspicious eyes of the waitress; perhaps they had expected me to rent a room for the night. Or perhaps they were just suspicious of strangers. I ducked into the woods a short distance down the road from the hotel, after first glancing around to make sure that I was not being followed. I soon came to the remains of a small fire left by the forest workers. I hunkered down by the glowing embers, glad to find some warmth in the now cool woods. I had decided to hide in the woods until around midnight, or one in the morning, and then make my way to the border, stealing through the woods like an Indian on the warpath. There was no moon, and no stars to guide me. I quickly crossed the road below the hotel once again, and scurried through the thick woods, the small pine branches whipping about my face, their sharp needles stinging my skin. My hands and face were scratched badly, but as my trousers and jacket were buckskin, my body was well protected. I carried a flashlight with me, but dared not use it, as there were many patrols on the road this near the border. I had to take cover many times to avoid them. The road was winding, and full of sharp curves, so it became increasingly more difficult for me to find the right direction. I had to cross and re-cross the road many times to take advantage of the cover provided by the dense woods. To make matters worse, the sky suddenly darkened with thick, brooding rain clouds. Suddenly I realized that I was hopelessly lost! Darkness was all around me, and my hands and face were scratched raw from the beating of the pine boughs. As usual, misfortunes never come singly. I had reached the edge of the forest, and was beginning to see my way clearly again, when I discovered to my horror that I was standing in the front yard of a large farm house. From my left, a dog immediately commenced snarling and barking in a most frightening manner. The lights in the house snapped on, and the front door slammed open: In the doorway stood a portly farmer in his nightshirt, waving an enormous shotgun menacingly! "Get out of here, or I'll shoot you!" he shouted. As miserable as I was, I had to chuckle at the picture of the fat farmer standing in his yard, his nightshirt dragging in the mud, screaming at me while his dog was running in circles around him, barking and snarling hysterically. Nevertheless, I made a hasty retreat back into the woods, and ran headlong into theforest, only to plunge to my waist into an icy brook. I sank up to my neck in the frigid water. When I finally managed to crawl up onto the bank, I started shivering uncontrollably, my teeth chattering like castanets. Then, as if this wasn't enough, the dog started barking again; it had followed me into the woods, and was drawing nearer. I was unarmed, except for my walking stick and a rather large scout knife. I thought that it would be a pity to have to kill the dog, for after all, he was just doing his duty; so I thought I might be able to discourage him with the stick. I took cover; the dog came nearer. Now I could hear him snuffling in the brush. I jumped from my hiding place and charged at the dog waving my stick. I struck him in the mouth; he immediately yelped in pain, turned tail and ran back in the direction of the farm house. I was quite upset at harming the poor beast, but nevertheless hastened off in what I supposed was the direction of the border. It would soon be dawn, and I did not relish the thought of hiding in the woods for the entire day, and then making another attempt to cross the border the following night. I still had no idea as to whether or not I was near the border. Then, as the first glow of dawn appeared, I got my bearings. I paused at a brook, washed my face in the icy water, and took a long drink. Then, as I was washing my bloody hands and knees, I looked up to discover a young man watching me from the far bank. He was evidently a forest worker, as he was dressed in leather clothes, and carried a large axe over his shoulder. Both of us were surprised, and for a moment neither could say anything. Then, lowering his axe to the ground, the young man asked: "Where did you come from?" "From home," I replied. The young man smiled tensely, and gripped his axe. "Where is Bergzabern?" I asked. "That way, about two kilometers," he replied, pointing down a path on the opposite side of the stream. "Oh, then I am going in the wrong direction," I replied. I tried thus to mislead him, in the event he should report me to the Border Police. Now I knew that the French border was only a kilometer away. I turned and fled in the opposite direction, only to collide with a burly border policeman who had been creeping up from behind. The policeman sprang to his feet, jerked the bolt of his machine pistol to the rear, and leveled it at me. "Hands up!" he shouted. I was so petrified with fear that I didn't react to his command. Next, a burst from the machine pistol slammed into a tree next to my head, sending bark and splinters swarming around me, inflicting a nasty gash on my forehead and left ear. "All right!" I screamed, and hastily placed my hands on top of my head. My knees were quaking with fear; would the cop shoot me? Was this the end? I noticed that the policeman was wearing the Nazi armband, the swastika: that emblem of cruelty pirated from the Blessed Buddhist symbol of rebirth and enlightenment, and debased by these monsters. I evidently had to contend with a young Nazi fanatic. Without further ado, he commanded me to turn around, and marched me at gun point down the forest trail towards town. The police station at Derbenz was only a short distance away. At the station, I was forced to sit on a hard wooden stool facing the wall while I was searched and handcuffed, then roughly marched down a dim corridor, and into a small, windowless room. Once again I was seated on a wooden stool. A police official entered the room, followed by two Nazi types, and a thin, nasty looking man in civilian clothes. My heart froze as if gripped by an icy fist; I had seen that type all too often: GESTAPO! The policemen interrogated me for about an hour. They repeatedly threatened me with a beating if I didn't cooperate. They were all of the opinion that I was trying to cross the border into France to join the Foreign Legion. I had actually intended to enlist in the Foreign Brigadeagainst General France in Spain. But, of course, I didn't tell them that, which would have been simple suicide. I tried to convince them that I had lost my way while hiking, but of course they would not believe me. Then, much to my relief, the Gestapo agent muttered something about "having better things to do", and left the room. Then the officer rose, and told the two policemen to lock me up. I was jerked to my feet, taken from the room into the street and escorted to the jail, which was a small prison cell attached to the rear of the city fire station. The cell was clean and well lighted. Here they removed my handcuffs, then slammed and locked the iron door. At this point, as you can well imagine, I was quite shaken. I was covered with mud and leaves from the forest, my arms and legs were scratched and bruised, and blood was still trickling from the gash in my forehead. My head was throbbing. I lay down on the crude plank bunk that was suspended from the cell wall by two chains. My situation looked quite desperate this time, much worse that at Woerth. The cell door opened once again, and a guard entered with a bucket of water and a towel, then left without comment. I gratefully took the towel and tried to wash the dried blood and filth from my face and arms. As I was finishing my ablutions, I heard footsteps in the hallway, then another cell door opened and closed. "Ah well," I thought, "Another lost soul has been brought in." Around dinner time I was taken from the cell and escorted to a small room that was furnished with a table and chairs. It was then that I saw the newcomer; he was a tall, rather well-built young man. We were allowed to talk during dinner, and I discovered that he was from Silesia (at that time part of Germany, later ceded to Poland). We were awakened early the next morning, and, after a frugal breakfast, were transported back to the train station on two motorcycles. Upon arrival at the station, we were once again handcuffed like common criminals. The two policemen followed us with drawn pistols. We boarded a train, and were made to sit among the other passengers, the two policemen sitting opposite us. No doubt we presented a rather pathetic sight, for now I had a large adhesive plaster over the wound on my forehead, and still looked haggard and worn. Two old ladies seated across the aisle glared at us with indignation; no doubt they thought us to be dangerous criminals. On the other side sat a beautiful fair-haired girl who appeared to by sympathetic towards us. Indeed, she seemed to take pity on our plight; she took out her handkerchief and commenced sobbing into it. Was she weeping for us? Or perhaps she had lost a loved one to the Nazi police. Perhaps she understood that the Nazi Regime was a cruel dictatorship; a black mark on the history of our people. Oh how I longed to talk to that little girl! May all the good powers in the Universe protect and bless her! We finally reached our destination, the city of Pirmasens, about eighteen kilometers from the French border. We got off the train, and were promptly escorted to the headquarters of the infamous Gestapo! As soon as we passed through the front door of the station, we could hear shouting and cursing coming from one of the side rooms. As we passed this room, we could see through the partially open door; a man was being held on a small stool by two policemen, while another was beating him in the face with a rubber truncheon. Then the door to another room burst open, and another poor wretch sailed across the room to land on his back against the far wall. Another Gestapo promptly kicked him in the groin and shouted: "How dare you enter this room without permission?" The situation was much too serious to laugh about, however. The poor man was terrified. He had a yellow star of David sewn to his lapel; an unfortunate Jew! His face was ashen, and he looked as if he had not seen the light of day, nor had a decent meal, in quite some time. I was the first to face the interrogator. The Gestapo chief sat behind a large wooden table. He wore a white shirt, and a black tie with a tie pin in the form of a Nazi eagle holding the swastika emblem. Lying on the table, within easy reach, was a thick rubber truncheon which most police were armed with, even in pre-Hitler days. The interrogator glowered at me, and spat out the words: "Petri, you are a god-damned traitor, an internationalist criminal, and probably a damned Communist to boot. We know all about your activities in opposition to the Hitler Youth!" I remained silent, and returned his stare. I would not give in to such filth, even if it meant another beating. "Where were you bound for this time?" growled the interrogator, "Deserting your Fatherland to join the Communists in Spain? Well, I am personally going to insure that you are sent to Dachau concentration camp, where you will have ample time to reflect over your treason!" After that, my personal documents were checked, and I was dismissed, to be escorted to the prison, which was located near the railway station. Miraculously, I had not been beaten. My "Protecting Hand" was still working for me. Once in prison, my head was shaved, and I was taken to the shower and searched thoroughly. My clothes were returned to me after being inspected I was allowed to keep my civilian clothing, as I had not yet been formally sentenced. I was then brought to a large cell in which were housed five other prisoners. The cell was intended to accommodate six people, so with the addition of the Silesian and myself, conditions were a bit crowded. When the guard had closed and locked the door, all of the inmates crowded around us, eager to hear our stories, and to tell us theirs. The cell walls were painted a drab greenish color. A rough wooden table was bolted to the floor in the center of the room, and two extra cots had been brought in, and set up in the center next to it. Two heavily barred windows let sunlight in, and there was also an electric light dangling from the ceiling by a long cord. A primitive iron stove completed the furnishings. Through the window on the left, we could see the high prison walls, and by standing on a chair we could look down into the prison courtyard. Outside of the wall was a nice villa surrounded by trees and flowers, and an iron fence; no doubt the residence of the warden. A large gate led to the streets of Pirmasens. The prison wall was made of rough stone, perhaps five or six meters high; broken glass had been set into the mortar on top of the wall to discourage any attempts at escape; it looked indeed formidable! My fellow prisoners were a very mixed lot: First, there was a short, stocky type with a 'bull neck' who had worked on a road crew. He had stolen the company payroll after some incompetent paymaster had left it lying on a bunk in their barracks. He was a native of Pirmasens, and had been sentenced to two and a half years in prison for his misdeed; he had been in the local jail for over six months, awaiting transfer to a larger prison. Another Pirmasens native was an older man in his fifties. He was emaciated to the point that he looked like a walking skeleton. He appeared to be very nervous and high strung; constantly pacing up and down in the cell, talking about his case, wringing his hands in despair and rolling his eyes heavenward. This one, who looked like a coward, had beaten his much younger wife severely. He had come home early one night and caught her in bed with a young SA man (Storm Trooper). The young man sprung naked from the second story window, and ran off through the streets of Pirmasens. Then the husband took off his wide leather belt and proceeded to give his unfaithful wife a 'Javanese Massage'. After a time, the neighbors became agitated at the screams and called the police, who promptly arrested him. He had been in jail for six weeks already, and had no idea what the outcome of his case would be. He once nervously asked me what I thought would happen to him. I replied with one word: "Dachau!" The poor fellow nearly fainted, and the rest of the prisoners had a good laugh. The third inmate was a Silesian, and a former soldier in the French Foreign Legion. He was a medium sized man, but appeared to be physically tough and wiry. He had served ten years in North Africa and French Indochina (now Vietnam). He told us many bloody stories about his experiences, and, in spite of the difficult and harsh life, seemed to have enjoyed the Legion, especially the good red wine (Binard) and the brown-skinned Arab girls. When he had completed ten years in the Legion, he took leave and returned to Germany to visit his elderly parents. He was trying to return to France to complete his next five year enlistment in the Legion (after which he could retire with a nice pension from the French Government) when he was arrested by the German Field Police as he tried to sneak across the French border. He had already sat in the prison for several weeks, without being tried or even charged. Another of my fellow jail birds was a simple beggar and tramp. Men like him were almost always committed to Dachau concentration camp in order to drive a work ethic into them (if they survived). Actually, we were all convinced that we would end up in Dachau, and this would mean a terrible time of torture and forced labor, and who knows what other miseries and pain. Men like the beggar, and also Gypsies, of which there were many before the Hitler regime, were imprisoned, or executed by lethal injection soon after their arrival by the infamous camp doctors. Crimes such as these were committed on direct order from the highest Nazi authorities, such as Himmler, Goering and Streicher, the chief trinity of murderers in the Third Reich! The fourth inmate was a good looking boy, a thief, who had committed several robberies to finance his many sexual adventures with the local girls. His future was dark, indeed, as I could tell by observing him; he was indeed a real criminal, the only one among us, and I was sure that he would never travel a righteous path in his life. He would always be a misfit, a true anti-social type. He had already discovered that the cell block above us was the women's area, and imprisoned there was a young girl in her twenties, who had been convicted for committing an abortion. He had learned this by a series of signals tapped on the water pipes from inmates on the second floor. They had used simple morse code. It always disturbs me to see a person of such obvious talent and intelligence fall into evil ways; the boy was extremely intelligent, but also thoroughly evil and self-centered. Finally, the last of the inmates in our cell was a devout Communist who had stolen a car from him employer and attempted to crash it through a border station. The German guards had shot out the tires, and he had collided wit a tree. They had quickly overpowered him and brought him to the prison. This one would certainly end up in Dachau, or be executed summarily. The food in the prison was simple, but we always had enough to eat. Our daily work consisted of a few hours of chopping wood for our stove, as there was no central heat in the cell. Sometimes we were required to work in the cellar, peeling potatoes that were stored in a meter high wooden bins. Many of the potatoes were rotten, and no one on the outside would have fed them to their pigs. Every Saturday we would get extra food if we had the money to pay for it. As I did have money, I bought food for all. This extra ration was only allowed for the one week, after that the Communist, the Legionnaire and myself were brought up to the second floor, and put into a smaller cell.

CHAPTER FOUR

ESCAPE

There was a constant coming and going in the new cell; new prisoners came in, and then left in a day or two. What their fate was after leaving us, we never found out. We did have our suspicions, however, but didn't dare express them. My sole mental activity consisted in trying to solve the problem of escaping from this wretched prison, and somehow crossing the border to France and freedom. I finally thought I had devised a suitable plan, and took the former Legionnaire into my confidence. We discussed the plan, and he agreed that it had a chance of working. We decided to include the Communist in our escape attempt, and he gladly joined us. From then on, we planned and schemed continuously; our every thought was concerned with our escape plans. We would certainly be risking our lives, but what did we actually have to lose? We would most probably be taking to a concentration camp anyway, or just conveniently executed in some dark cellar. Anyway, our life if we survived would be hell. So we went on with our plans with great determination. We would escape at any cost. We had no fear or misgiving. The only possible way out of the cell was through one of the barred windows. It would be necessary for us to somehow cut through one of the bars, and for that purpose we would need a saw, or something similar. If we had a knife we could possibly fashion a crude saw from it. So, how were we to get a knife? Every Friday in the prison, as most of the administrative personnel were good Catholics, we were given herring and potatoes. Christ was supposed to have died on Friday, therefore all good catholics don't eat meat, but only fish. What the difference is I cannot fathom, as the fish is also a sentient being with just as much right to life as a cow or pig. Well, not to digress with my philosophical ramblings, suffice it to say that we all had to eat herring and potatoes, and were given a knife with which to cut the fish..Aha! The knives were collected by the guards after the meal, though, and always counted. They were very attentive at this, and there was not much chance of them overlooking a missing knife. We had three guards, or warders, who changed their shifts every three days' those on days would go to nights, and vice versa. One of our guards, a large red-faced Bavarian, was a former Infantry sergeant who had served in the first world war. He appeared not to be as fanatic as the other guards, although he was nevertheless very strict. He had weaknesses, though, and these we had already discovered. He was always accompanied on his rounds by a Russian prisoner who only spoke Russian and French, having learned this language during his ten year stint in the French Foreign Legion. He had been arrested while traveling through Germany enroute to Poland. Our former Legionnaire, Jupp, succeeded in making his acquaintance, and they became friends. One day I heard Jupp ask him something in French, and the Russian replied "Vendredi!" It would appear that he was going to smuggle a knife to us the following Friday. The following week crept by ever so slowly. We counted the hours and minutes, and suffered many sleepless nights. The worst part was that new prisoners were constantly being put into our cell where they would only stay for a few hours before being sent elsewhere. We were always very wary of these people, as we could not be sure that the Gestapo would not put a spy in among us. Then Thursday another former Legionnaire was put into our cell. This one had also served in the Legion for ten years, and was a Bavarian. He had married a French woman, and they had a home in Strasbourg. He had slipped across the border into Germany (illegally, of course,) to visit relatives, and was arrested as he tried to recross the frontier into France. We told him of our planned escape, and he was very happy to join us in the effort. Finally the long awaited day arrived. The Russian wheeled his mess cart into the cell and put a plate before each of us: herring and boiled potatoes. We could hardly wait for the guard to leave and bolt the door before we plunged into the fish, each probing earnestly. There was nothing in mine, but Jupp suddenly yelled and pulled a blunt wooden handled knife from his, only to stuff it back again and look nervously at the door. hoping his shout hadn't alerted the guard. We all sat calmly and ate our meal without conversation, as if we were in a monastery devoted to vows of silence. After the guard had returned and the Russian had removed the remnants of our lunch, we posted the new Legionnaire at the door while we took stock of our "tool kit." The previous day, while we were walking in circles in the courtyard (our daily exercise), I had picked up several small stones, hoping that we could use them to grind notches in the knife blade, to give it a saw-toothed edge. I had also picked up a short length of broken flagstaff and smuggled it into the cell. I didn't want to use it as a weapon, as that was entirely against my Buddhist principles, but hoped it would serve as a handle for our make-shift saw, and perhaps also as a lever to pry the bars apart. At this early time in my life I was already under the influence of the Lord Buddha's peaceful teachings, although I had only read the "Light of Asia", the world famous poem by the British Theosophist Sir Edwin Arnold. The eighth chapter had made a specially deep impression on me. Words like this had a transforming influence on my way of thinking: "If ye lay bound upon the wheel of change, And no way were of breaking from that chain, The Heart of Being is a curse, The soul of things fell pain. Ye are not bound! The Soul of Things is sweet, The Heart of Being is celestial rest: Stronger than woe is will; that which was Good Doth pass to Better - Best." Yes, stronger than woe is will! The words of Lord Buddha inspired my mind never to surrender to evil, never to submit, but always to forge ahead in spite of all difficulties. I would get out of this prison no matter what travail lay before me. At ten each night the lights were turned out in all of the cells, so we had to work on our saw in almost total darkness. There was a small round window in the cell door through which a guard could spy upon us at any time, so one of us was delegated the responsibility of listening at the door for approaching footsteps. The guards were always careful, and walked the corridors silently, so our watcher had to be alert. There were always two guards on duty at night, and some of them could be very nasty and dangerous. We tried to do most of our work when the old Sergeant was on duty, as he habitually wore boots shod with iron plates that made considerable noise in the corridor. We made the saw during that first night. Late in the afternoon of the next day, when the old Sergeant was on duty, we tried to remove the cement from around the bars of the left window. Just when we had succeeded in removing a considerable bit, we heard footsteps in the corridor! It was the Sergeant. We hurriedly stuffed the loose cement back into the hole, pasting it into place with a mixture of bread, water and ashes from the stove that we had prepared. It looked exactly like cement. I jumped back from the window at the last moment, as the cell door opened noisily, and our "friend" the Sergeant stepped into the cell, his arms behind his back, and a grim look upon his face. He stalked into the middle of the cell: we were standing on either side of him, the communist had moved slowly towards the door, not to sneak out, but to slam it in event the guard uncovered our plot. In that event we would have to act in self-defense, and either kill the guard or render him unconscious. Luckily, the old Sergeant did not notice anything. although he was suspicious. He stared at the other window (the wrong one), and muttered "Let me catch you." We all smiled happily and answered in chorus: "Certainly not, Herr Kruger!" Whereupon he smiled and left the cell. We liked Kruger, for he was basically a good fellow, a little old fashioned guard who had not yet gotten into the "new look" of the Nazi regime, but whose mind still dwelt happily in the time of the last German Emperor. When he had gone we all breathed a sigh of relief, and indeed felt quite satisfied at the outcome. The Communist exploded in a silent guffaw, his entire body shaking convulsively. His laugh infected all of us, and we fell on the floor in a paroxysm of mirth. What a shock it would be to Krueger and the other guards when they found us gone. The only pity would be that we wouldn't be around to see it. Actually, we were a long way from freedom, and many disagreeably things could still happen before the realization of our plan. That night we removed the last of the cement from around the bar. One of us had the bread paste ready to stuff into the hole in the event a guard appeared. We had planned at first to free one end of the bar, and then bend it back making a gap large enough for us to crawl through. But, try as we could, we couldn't budge the steel bar. We even tried using the broken flag staff to pry the bar loose, and also tried wrapping a blanket around it and pulling; all to no avail, the bar wouldn't budge. We were interrupted twice while we were trying to bend that blasted bar, and had to hurriedly hide everything, jump back into our bunks and pretend to sleep, all snoring horribly, until the guard left. Then back to the window. We tried all night to move that bar, without budging it an inch. We finally gave up, and tried to get some sleep. The next morning we decided to grind notches in the knife, and use it as a saw to cut through the tough steel. We had to do this during the day, as the normal prison noises would mask the sound of our work. This added to the peril of our situation, as there were more prison personnel on duty during the day. One of us kept an ear to the door, listening for approaching footsteps, while the rest of us worked frantically at the bar. The Communist usually listened while Jupp and I did most of the sawing. The other Legionnaire hung out of the other window, keeping his eye on the courtyard below. The window we were working on was next to the wall, and was in shadow which prevented anyone in the courtyard from noticing us. It took us over a week to saw through the bar, as it was very tough steel. Then, unexpectedly, a new prisoner was put in our cell. The new inmate had been arrested for begging, and appeared very seedy indeed. We were not impressed with him, and had a hurried conference. What should we do? Should we take him into our confidence? Perhaps he was a Gestapo spy, or possibly he would betray us hoping to get in good with the guards. We finally agreed to tell him of our plans. The beggar was very surprised, and trembled with excitement. First he said that he would go along with us, but later changed his mind, saying that he had no intention of risking his life. We scolded him, calling him the worst coward in human history. Besides that, we told him of the methods the Gestapo had for dealing with people like him: knocking out teeth, breaking arms and legs..even hanging and execution by firing squad. Strangely, this didn't seem to frighten him, and he remained firm in his decision not to join us. What should we do now? One of the former Legionnaires suggested that we simply cut his throat and be done with him. I and the others were strictly against this, and refused to have anything to do with such a crime. The beggar, impressed with our apparent honesty, vowed that he would lie down on his bunk and pretend to be asleep. Therefore, he thought, the guards would not blame him for our escape. Of course we were taking a great risk. What if he raised the alarm while we were still in the courtyard? It would be the end of us, and he would gain the favor of the Gestapo. Around one in the morning, during a heavy rain, we sawed through the remaining part of the bar, and then, making a rope from our sheets, the first of us squeezed through the window and climbed down into the courtyard. We had originally planned to jump from the window to the prison wall, but found this to be impossible. So, we would climb down into the yard, and then scale the prison wall to freedom. The Legionnaire was the first out, followed by me, and then Jupp, and finally the Communist. I, being lean, had no trouble squeezing out of the window, and climbed down the knotted sheets hand over hand, gripping my shoes which I had tied together, between my teeth. It was a very strange feeling, standing at last in the courtyard; what if they started shooting at us? Would they? They had every right. There was, however, no time for such reflections. The only thing that mattered now was to get over that wall. We hurried into the shadow of the wall where the other Legionnaire was waiting. I , being the tallest, climbed on Jupp's shoulders, and, with the help of a drain pipe, gained the top of the wall. I immediately cut my hands badly on the broken glass that had been set into the mortar on top of the wall. It was not painful, but I could feel the blood trickling down my arms. My comrades anxiously urged me to jump over the wall to freedom. Just as I was about to leap, I heard voices on the other side. Peering over the wall, I saw, much to my horror, a brown uniformed S.A. man (one of Hitler's Storm Troopers) with his girl friend seeking shelter from the rain in the archway of the prison gate. They remained there for over five minutes, then, as the rain abated, finally went on down the street. Jupp grasped my bloody hand and vaulted to the top of the wall; then the Communist and the other Legionnaire. We jumped down into the warden's garden, and then over a wrought iron fence into the street. It was one thirty in the morning, pouring down rain, and I was bleeding badly from my cut hand. Nevertheless, we were all elated at the success of our escape. The rain had kept most people indoors, so we had a clear path through the town and into the fields that surrounded it. As we started across the fields, the Communist started arguing loudly with Jupp. None of us could be absolutely sure of the direction to the border, especially in the rain and darkness. But Jupp had been this way before, so we trusted him to lead us. The Communist, however, had his own idea as to where the border was, and continued to argue with Jupp at every turn. Finally, I heard Jupp yell "Verflucht nachmal", followed by a meaty thud. The Communist went flying back to land in an irrigation ditch, where he sat rubbing his jaw. As we moved out again, I glanced back in time to see him taking off in the opposite direction. Well, perhaps he would be lucky, but I doubted it, for we could hear the sound of a siren coming from the city: they had at last detected our escape. Perhaps Kruger had looked into our cell and found us missing. It appeared, though, that the old beggar had kept his word, and hadn't betrayed us. Our situation, however, was now very serious. It was another 18 kilometers to the French border, and we were actually not sure we were going in the right direction. We were completely soaked and miserable as we tramped over the sodden fields and through small patches of woods. The rain poured down upon us without stopping. Our shoes were full of water, even my leather clothes did not protect me from the downpour. We soon saw many motorcycle and jeep patrols on the roads; probably Gestapo and Field Police. They combed the fields with spotlights criss-crossing from left to right.. We dived for cover in a cold, dirty ditch full of water and lay there for about ten minutes, shivering and our teeth chattering. Then we suddenly heard a volley of gunfire from the direction the Communist had taken. Did they capture him? Or merely shoot him down in cold blood? Knowing the Nazis, I suspected the latter. Anyway, we never saw him again, or heard any news of his fate. Now we discovered that the local peasants and farmers had joined the manhunt; Were we such desperate characters? A political dissident (me), and two Foreign Legionnaires intent upon re-joining their units; gad, what hardened criminals. The farmers were probably offered a reward by the Gestapo. We saw lights from torches and lanterns more frequently now. Then a truck stopped on the road, and began to search the fields with a powerful searchlight. We had to take to the ditch again, and, as the beam of the light came near, duck under the foul, cold water. It was still pouring down rain, and ghastly cold. This was, actually, a blessing, for the police dogs, which we now could hear baying in the distance, could not catch our scent. The truck finally moved on, and we crawled out of the ditch. Our limbs had stiffened, and it was a while before we could move again. Jupp began to lose his senses, he began to cry, sobbing: "We are lost, all is over. They will catch us, they will hang us, or behead us." I said nothing, just ground my teeth. I was by no means ready to give up and be caught by the Gestapo; death would be preferable. I was determined that I would not be taken alive. Gradually dawn approached, and we still had not reached the border. We were without food, had not slept, and were cold and wretched. We decided to hide in the forest during the day, and crawled in that direction across the still wet fields. In the forest we found shelter in a hollow tree that was near a brook. We drank from the icy brook, and Jupp ate some kind of grass he found there on the bank. I was hungry too, but avoided eating the grass. Today was Sunday, and there was a great peacefulness and calm in the forest. Thousands of glistening dew drops hung from the trees and flowers: they looked like a myriad of tears. Nature, the beautiful goddess of creation, was weeping over our misery. Although I was a hunted being, I felt in tune with the infinite. I passed the whole day in quiet meditation. Although I was dog tired, I dared not sleep. Later in the afternoon we went for a recon through the woods, trying to orient ourselves. We made an interesting discovery: we found numerous rolls of barbed wire hidden under the branches of the trees, This was evidently the material intended for the construction of the so-called "West Wall" which the Nazi regime started in 1937 all along the French border. This was the first stage in the preparation for the "revenge" war against France that exploded in 1939. How we wished that we could destroy all this, but we had not the means. By now our clothes had dried, and we tried to remove the dirt and mud by scrubbing our clothes with handfuls of grass. We must have looked horrible, and definitely would have made a bad impression on anyone we happened to meet. Our faces were scratched, and we were all unshaven and dirty. We could now make out the right direction to the border. Since the moon would not set until late that morning, we decided to hole up in the woods again, it being too risky to attempt the crossing of the open fields in the bright moonlight. Jupp was becoming increasingly impatient, and the other Legionnaire was for running for the border as soon as possible, since we were so close. He decided to take the risk; we were lost anyway, so he went ahead. Jupp and I waited in the woodline, listening for shots or any other indications or sounds of pursuit. We heard nothing. Finally, about thirty minutes later, Jupp decided to go. He left the forest edge, and ran across the open field in a low crouch. I followed, also trying to keep low, running in spurts. We soon saw a line of low hills in front of us, and thought this must be the border. We continued running across the open field, stopping every thirty meters or so, then crawling on our bellies for another short distance. We suddenly heard singing! Was it French? Coming nearer we heard, much to our horror, that it was German; young soldiers, probably recruits, singing one of the worst Nazi songs..."And when the blood of the Frenchman springs from our swords........." Songs such as these poisoned the hearts and minds of our German youth, as they had also done in the First World War. Jupp and I stopped, crawling into a large bush. Why were these people singing here, in the middle of the night? Were they celebrating someone's birthday? Or was it just another of the Nazi inspired provocations against the French? Now we knew, however, that we were very close to the border. We waited until the moon had disappeared behind the hills, and then continued on in the inky darkness. We soon came upon a road just below the crest of a hill. and discovered a border demarcation stone on the shoulder. We could just make out the letters "R.F.", which stood for "Republique Francais." We were overjoyed; we danced around the stone like children around a Christmas tree. Jupp started to sing a Legion song. and we marched arm in arm into a tiny village on the other side of the hill. The houses were a poorly lot, most constructed of field stone and clay. We headed for the market square of the tiny hamlet which was the only area illuminated by a single electric light. I found an empty cigarette package on the ground, and was dismayed to find that it was a well known German brand. I showed it to Jupp, who dismissed it with a wave of his hand, I looked over his shoulder, however, and found a poster advertising the same brand of Cigarette: We were still in Germany! somehow we had lost our way, and recrossed the border. Jupp was startled when he saw the poster, and we both agreed that we had better get out of the hamlet as quietly and as soon as possible. Just on the outskirts, as we rounded a corner, I collided with a fat burger, who appeared to be quite drunk. We picked him up and apologized profusely. We asked him the name of the village, and he answered weakly; "This id Bodenbach." Alas, we were still in Germany, albeit very close to the border. We continued along the road; I glanced back just in time to see the burger run around the corner, no doubt in the direction of the police station. We ran as if possessed by demons! Shortly before we reached the safety of the forest, we came to another road, and heard the approaching mutter of a motorcycle. We quickly took cover in a ditch, which was. of course, full of icy water. Why was it that all the ditches were full of water when we had to hide in them? Our clothes never got a chance to dry. When the motorcycle had passed we started to jump up and race across the road. Just them the beams of two flashlights crossed the road from behind us; probably the police from Bodenbach looking for us. We dived into the ditch once again. We had to lie in the icy water for another thirty minutes until the two policemen disappeared. Jupp sprang to his feet and raced across the road; I tried to follow, but my trouser leg snagged on a branch, causing me to fall flat on my face in the now muddy water. While I was trying to free my leg, another bicycle appeared; this one carried a large policeman who was armed with a machine pistol. When he had passed, I ran across the road, hoping to find Jupp on the other side. He was nowhere to be found! I called his name in a low voice, but there was no reply. Well, I guess he decided it was every man for himself. I couldn't really blame him, loyalty to friends is one of the first things to go when the situation is dire, as ours definetly was. We had also found no sign of the other Legionnaire. Perhaps he had been captured, or shot. I continued on my way, alone now. and feeling very hungry and miserable. I had almost lost all hope of ever seeing France and freedom. No amount of courage and determination can stave off physical breakdown after a period of exhaustion and starvation. I had reached a dangerous point at which I had a feeling of total resignation. It mattered no longer; if the Gestapo captured me, or shoot me, so what! But I still crawled on over the fields, stumbling towards the west. In the east the sun rose slowly. I still had not reached the French border. I noticed a cluster of small farm houses a few hundred yards to my front. I didn't know if they were French or German, and didn't care. My eyes pained me from the sleepless days and nights. When I stopped crawling for a moment, I fell asleep. Leaving the small forest, I saw a house below that was flying a Nazi flag. Just as I turned back to run into the forest, a military voice commanded: "Halt. Stand still, don't move!" At first I couldn't see anyone, then I saw that it was a German Border Guard standing near the house, with his machine pistol pointing at me. I turned and dashed for the forest. Four or five shots snapped over my head, then I felt a sudden burning pain inside my right thigh. I could still run , however, and run I did! As I plunged into the forest, It once again began to rain heavily. and I thanked the heavens for the diversion. It didn't last long, however, and soon I heard the barking of a large dog very near. They were searching for me again, this time with dogs! I drew my knife (the one we had used to saw the bar in the prison) hoping at least to be able to defend myself against the dog. Indeed, the beast was on my trail. I heard only the dog, however, there was no sound of humans following him. Standing near a heap of fallen trees, I awaited the attack. I didn't have long to wait. out of the brush sprang a large Doberman! He snarled, showing me a mouthful of wicked teeth. I had removed my leather jacket and wrapped it around my left arm as protection. The dog sprang, I shoved my left arm into his face, causing him to bite into the jacket. I was sorry to have to kill the dog, he was, after all, just doing his "duty." But this was life or death. I had crouched down, and as the dog sprang, jammed my left arm into his mouth, and at the same time, plunged the knife into his throat. I struck with all my remaining strength....jets of dark blood poured over my arm. The dog was paralyzed at once, and died in a few seconds without uttering a sound. I drew the knife from his throat. feeling a passing sadness at having to kill such a magnificent, brave animal. After all, he was just doing what he had been trained for, and any blame must lie upon his masters, and not him. There was no time for reflection, however: I turned and plunged deeper into the forest. From a distance I could hear more dogs. Then it started raining again, this time heavily. At last I had found the right path to the French border. As I left the forest again, I could see in the distance a road going up a low hill. There on the shoulder I saw a blue sign showing the way to a village in France called Bitche. I was elated. There were, however, another three or four hundred meters between me and the sign, and all of it open field. A small brook crossed the field about half way. I could see to my left the house where the Border Guard had fired at me. To the right, below the French road, I could see the tops of houses, and a church steeple. I didn't know whether if was French or German. The sign, however, was French, as we had no blue road signs in Germany, Without further reflection, I started toward the border and the sign. I was risking my life; they would certainly shoot me on sight now! I reached the brook, and jumped over it, landing on my right leg, which had been grazed by the bullet. Wincing in pain, I hobbled the remaining distance to the blue sign. I was nearly unconscious; my ears were ringing, and there was a strange heat and noise in my head. I was near the end. With my last effort, I crawled up the hill, and grasped the sign post, upon which I could still read the name "Bitche," and "Republique Francais." Then I fainted. I don't know how long I was unconscious. When I came to, I was still alone. Not far away I saw the first house of the tiny village. Struggling wearily to my feet, I approached it, hoping to get something to eat and drink. It was a farm house. A young woman was sitting on a low stool milking a cow. When she saw me, she screamed in German: "Jesus, Maria and Joseph!" In the European Catholic countries, this is used something like a mantra against evil. I was shocked to hear her speak German. Was I after all still in Germany? Then I remembered that this part of France, Lorraine, once belonged to Germany, and the population speaks German as their mother tongue, but they also use French. I said: "Please don't be afraid, I am only a political refugee from Germany. Please give me some milk to drink; I have had no food or sleep in three days and nights." The woman calmed down, and her face softened: "Then do come into our house and rest. I will hurry and get you some breakfast. Do you like cake? we have a large piece left over from Sunday." "I think I am able to eat anything," I replied. In the large kitchen of the farm house, she handed me a large cup of fresh milk. I drained it in one gulp! Afterwards, she showed me a large basin of water, and allowed me to wash up. I was a horrid sight, indeed. I checked my wound; the bullet had just grazed the flesh, and was more painful than serious. The woman stated that they had seen several refugees cross the border in the past, and she and her husband had always helped them as much as they could. Her husband was French, and worked at the Maginot Line, the huge fortification that the French were building in an attempt to stave off an eventual attack by the Nazis. ( It was proved useless, however, the invading Germans merely went around it when they invaded France). After eating some cake, I lie down on a couch in the corner, and fell asleep instantly. When I awoke, the husband had returned from his job. He also spoke German, and our conversation was a mixture of German and French. I had learned French in the monastery, and my knowledge of this language was to be of great value in my future life, and was invaluable in during my "career" in the Foreign Legion. I told the Frenchman that I intended to enrol in the International Brigade in Spain, which was fighting against General Franco. Although he was sympathetic towards their cause, he said that this would be useless, for Germany and Italy were sending aid to Franco. The International Brigade could in no way hinder the Fascists from coming into power. He advised me to go to the city of Bitche, and there join the French Foreign Legion, as this would be the lesser of the two evils. The Frenchman advised me against going to the Police in his village, for they would force me to return to Germany. When I once passed through the Maginot Line, I could hope to be admitted as a soldier of the Legion. He gave me some good advice, and hints towards getting through the Maginot Line. I left before noon, hoping to catch a truck loaded with bricks which passed through the village on its way to the line. It started raining again, but I sat under some trees near the road. Shortly after twelve the truck appeared. There were three persons in the cab. I waved my arms, and the driver slowed and signalled me to hop on the rear. I jumped aboard, and made myself comfortable atop the bricks. The driver apparently thought I was one of the workers on the line.

CHAPTER 5

FRANCE!

A short distance down the dusty road, we came upon the first check point on the fabled Maginot Line. A smartly uniformed black soldier, with steel helmet and fixed bayonet waved us through his post with a friendly smile. He certainly thought I was a member of the work crew arriving for the morning shift. We passed through several more similar check points without, incident, finally arriving in the small city of Bitche. I watched for an opportunity, and sprang from the truck as the driver slowed for a corner, then ran down a side street. I ran for several blocks before ducking into a doorway to catch my breath. I warily peered from the recess, looking both left and right. Evidently I hadn't been followed. Brushing the dust from my clothes, I ventured out into the street, trying to appear nonchalant, as if I belonged in the city. Then I caught my reflection in a store window, and stopped aghast. A wan, haggard face peered back at me with red rimmed eyes; I scarcely looked human. I would have to find some place to rest and clean up before I could make any further plans. I had, of course, no money, no passport, nor anything other than my dirty leather clothes. I had thrown away the knife, for it pained me that I had had to kill the dog. I have always had a great fondness for animals, especially dogs, and I could not stand the sight of the knife, which was still blood stained, and had thrown it away in revulsion. As I stood gaping at my reflection, I noticed a scowling red face reflected in the window next to mine. It was the shopkeeper peering out at me. I turned, hoping to escape down the street, only to collide with a French Policeman: "Your passport, please," he said in French. "I have none," I answered, "I have just escaped from the Nazis; please, I want to go to Spain, I beg you, let me go!","The only place you will go is to our station," he replied, "Come along peacefully!" I resigned myself to this turn of fate, I couldn't escape anyway, being nearly at the point of complete mental and physical exhaustion. So I accompanied the Officer to the Police Station. I was well received at the Police Station, however, so my anxiety ebbed. The Officer spoke fluent German, and was very polite. I told him my story, of my harrowing escape from Germany, and expressed my desire to be sent to the Spanish border. He replied that it would be impossible for me to be sent to Spain, especially as I wanted to help in the Spanish Civil War. France was a member of the convention for non-intervention, and would do nothing to aid either side. I could, however, enlist in the famous French Foreign Legion and serve in North Africa; he would help me to arrange that. "Did you know that your friend Jupp was through here yesterday?" he asked. I expressed my elation that Jupp had made it to freedom. "He decided to return to the Legion, and is right now celebrating his freedom in the depot of the Tirailleurs" (a French Regiment, not of the Legion). "I am sorry, but I have no intention of joining the Legion," I said. "I must refuse." "Then I am obligated to place you under arrest," replied the policeman, "Your case will be submitted to the French authorities, and they will probably send you back to Germany." I knew that If I were to be sent back to Germany I would probably be executed on the spot, or worse, turned over to the Gestapo who would probably torture me to death. The least I could expect would be confinement in some place such as Dachau, as a political prisoner. My situation looked anything but bright, and I could find no way out of the dilemma. I did agree, however, to be put under arrest (as if I had any choice!). The Officer led me to a cell. At this moment I was indifferent to anything. I only knew that I needed a long sleep, and apparently the officer was of the same opinion, as he remained friendly all of the time. I slept the whole day. First thing the next morning, a younger policeman brought me something to eat. It consisted of a little white bread, tomato soup, and something I couldn't identify. While I was eating, the Officer sat beside me and informed me that I was to be sent back to the German border if I still refused to enlist in the Legion. A piece of bread almost stuck in my throat when I heard this. The officer left without waiting for my reply. I still had one day and a night to spend in the cell. At noon the next day I expressed my wish to enlist in the Foreign Legion. The officer was very pleased: it saved him a lot of trouble and paper-work. Besides, his prestige rose in the eyes of his superiors. He at once brought me a liter bottle of the scarlet red wine called Binard. Although I almost never drank wine or beer, I welcomed the treat, and it was very good. In France, Italy, and in many parts of Germany, wine drinking is very common and not considered sinful, even in Catholic monasteries. After this I was taken to the depot where Jupp had gone. We entered through a large iron gate, and were welcomed at once by a group of French soldiers who led us to the dining hall. There, at the far end, I saw Jupp talking in a high pitched voice to a group of young soldiers. He was apparently boasting of the adventurous life he had led in Africa and Indo China. When Jupp saw me, he almost dropped his wine bottle, but succeeded in saving the "Life blood of the Foreign Legion." We embraced each other, being happy that we had survived our ordeal. I had to tell my story. The young soldiers listened very attentively, for we were heroes in their eyes. In fact, we were. It had not been an easy thing, to escape from a German prison and cross the border; to be hunted for three days by Field Police, Gestapo, peasants and dogs. We did nothing that day but eat and drink, drink and eat. Late that evening we were led to a room which contained several bunks. Next morning a sergeant came to call us for breakfast, which consisted of good coffee, and a thick slab of chocolate. After breakfast we had to appear in the office of the depot. Here we got Military Railway tickets to the city of Saarbourg. In Saarbourg a sergeant met us at the station, and escorted us to the depot of the Colonial Troops. At this office we were told that we would have to pass a medical examination before enlisting in the Legion. The doctor arrived several hours later, examined our eyes and feet; that was all! According to him we were fit to be soldiers. He certified this by signing a special form. Later we sat together with a group of French Soldiers, who were openly envious of our trip to Africa. We spent several nights at the depot. The door to our room was locked each night by an Arab sergeant, evidently to prevent us from deserting. We were, however, too happy to harbor any thoughts of escape; we felt safe on French soil. That night I dreamt my whole story over again. Suddenly , at about the last watch of the night, our door was opened, and there was our comrade who had gone first through the window of the German prison. His name was Robert, and he, too, had arrived safely in France. He related his experiences, explaining also that he had a French wife. He had reached the border after being pursued by the Gestapo, who had fired at him several times. He had a slight flesh wound on his right arm. Robert was happy to have permanent residence in France, and permission to go to his wife. He had come here only to eat, sleep, and obtain some money for the journey to his home in Strasbourg. Then we slept for a few hours, until the bugler played his morning tune; a sound so well known and hated by all soldiers. Even the laziest and most tired soldier jumps out of bed when that call is heard. Jupp, the old Legionaire, jumped up at once. Then he remembered that he hadn't signed his enlistment papers yet. With a smile, and mumbling some French words, he rolled over and went back to sleep. At nine A.M. an Arab sergeant fetched us for breakfast, and then we had to go for another medical exam. This time it was somewhat more thorough than the one at Bitche. Jupp and I were found eligible to enlist. Later, at the regimental office, we signed several papers and contracts, vowing to serve France with "Honor and Loyalty." Jupp signed for his last five years, and I for my first five year enlistment. When we had signed, the officer said with a smirk: "You have both just signed your death warrants." I replied rather laconically: "That we will have to see." I was, however, a little shocked at his tactlessness, for in general, the French are renowned for their gentleness and politeness. Perhaps this did not hold true for the Army...I would soon discover the truth of this. Now I was officially a French soldier; a member of the famed Foreign Legion. This would mean five years of a very hard life in Africa, five years of suffering from the sun, thirst and war; the Legion has a saying: "March or die!" But, why worry? Life in the Legion certainly could not be as bad as life in a concentration camp. In the Legion I would have a chance to be free again in five years. In a concentration camp, however, the chance of me surviving was very small; I would see this with my own eyes later, in 1939.

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