Stephen Shooster
for alternatives. Luckily, I found Dr. Norbert Kant, a lawyer from Grybow, who was married to my cousin. It was his brother who helped give me the idea to get the coal from the railroad station when my family was freezing and desperate for some warmth. I met him at his office next to the Israeli consulate in Warsaw. Dr. Kant himself escaped the wartime mayhem by going to Russia. Afterward, he returned as a Major in the new Polish Army. When I met him, he was about the same age as my father and, more importantly, was mostly handling cases like mine. It seemed like his business was booming, as he lived in a beautiful home. We had a long conversa- tion. I told him everything I knew. I knew plenty because of my rank, Aryan looks, and the fact that I was still hiding my identity as a Jew. He concurred, making me privy to many anti-Semitic remarks that he heard. Wisely, he spoke, “Young man, the same thing you are telling me, I know to be true and familiar. I agree with you. It is a matter of time before the situation here gets much worse.” I shook my head in agreement, as he continued. “Son, I am preparing to leave. Just like you.” It was a relief to share these feelings with him, and since we were in agreement, I could focus on the next steps with his expert advice. He said, “You need to get a passport. To do this, you need to find Captain Morgen- stern in Tsacz. He is working for the Interior Department.” I had no idea what they even did at the Interior Department. It was not easy to reach him. With persistence and patience, we finally met, and I introduced myself. As I reached my hand to shake his, I said, “Hello, I am Leon Schagrin from Gribov.” It is the telltale V, in Gribov, that gave away my being Jewish. He picked up on this in an instant. “Are you the brother of Leizer in Israel?” I prickled with concern over this initial question. Seeing my concern, he put me at ease by saying, “Your brother was in Russia with me.” Relaxed, I knew I was talking with a kindred soul, so I answered, “No, I am his cous- in.” Because of my impatience at having waited so long to meet with him, I blurted out, “I want a passport.” Quickly, he made a motion not to talk about this, and we left the building as he spoke softly to avoid any prying eyes or ears. Then he said, “I can give you a passport to the East, not the West, and it may take up to a year for the permission.” It was 1952. He continued, “Just fill out the papers. Once completed they are directed to my office, and I will see yours.” I did as he said, using my address in Breslau for the response. While I waited, Stalin died. Things were changing. Months later, the mail arrived, and I got the coveted passport, but I did not have the money for a ticket, so I went back to Dr. Kant. We spoke and reminisced, and then, with little prompting, he gave
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