Stephen Shooster Chapter Eleven Leaving Soviet Poland
I sensed the danger, and I knew I had to get out of the army, but, more urgently, out of the country. It would not be an easy task for a Sergeant, even though I had already lost everything and they couldn’t take much more. I would have to risk it. Graduation came upon me. I saw my fellow graduates with their families, celebrating. But not me; I was alone. All I can remember was yet another long questionnaire. They knew I was hiding the fact that I was Jewish. Finally, a Russian intelligence of- ficer and a fellow Jew confronted me. They took me into a private room and said, “This is not true,” referring to my Polish nationality. They tried very hard to break me. I am not sure what would have happened if I agreed, but I felt I could not take a chance. So, I held my position and said nothing, which, of course, made them more upset. Finally, exasperated, based on my silence, they said, “You will not get a degree. Instead, you will be discharged.” I was crestfallen but stoic. I would not be dismayed. After all, I was a survivor, and these fellows could not even begin to imagine the kind of challenges I had already been through. They may have been yelling at me, but in the back of my mind all I heard was my father, “You will survive and tell the story of everything that happened.” Drift- ing off, my interrogators shook me, “You will be doing a different kind of work, like a laborer.” Finally, the grilling was over, and I left in a state of limbo. I was to remain in the army and even get paid, but I had nothing to do. The writing was on the wall. If I just let it happen, there was no way the result would have been good. I had to act. I was not alone, Jews everywhere in Poland were under duress. I heard about the Jews in the government being replaced with non-Jews, and then sent East to the gulag for forced labor. It rang with truth. Time was getting short. I was living in a political minefield. The repression around me was palpable. It was dangerous to talk about leaving. The talking alone was actionable. You could easily go to jail or worse. Treading carefully, I approached my friend, another Jewish fellow, who was in a responsible position within the government. We met in Krakow. While there, I also met with the local administrator, in charge of the jail, Mr. Hammerschmidt. I felt I could trust him, too, because he was in both camp Szebnie and, later, in Birkenau with me. His tattoo number was almost a match with mine. First, he told me, “Leon, you are crazy.” Then under his breath, he agreed. Softly he said, “Do not repeat this, but I think it can happen again.” Here was an important government official, but he could not even talk openly about the situation. I sensed it was a dead end, so I looked
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