BREAKING OUT BY TAXI
WORDS Kate Canty
In 2002 I went to Germany with my husband and daughter to visit my father's grave located in an RAF cemetery in Becklingen.
Although this visit would never make front-page headlines it was certainly world shattering for me.
My father had been shot down over Germany in 1944 and no one in our family had ever been to his grave. Following my mother's wish, no family memorial service was ever held for him when he died. I don't know how old I was when I knew that I could never speak about my father. I grew up not knowing anything about him.
The Second World War had cast a long shadow over my family. My Russian family had disappeared without trace during that conflagration. My great aunt had visited them all in 1938 and brought back photos. That was the only proof we had that they had ever existed. I grew up with a painful hatred for all things German. I'd learned it from my grandparents. It was like a second skin. My otherwise cultured and very loving grandfather would rage about German atrocities. They were viewed as an innately evil race.
When I was at an age to date, I had to swear an oath on a Bible that I would never date a German. There was one abortive attempt on my part to date an Austrian. I had to choose between my date and leaving home forever. According to my grandfather, Germans made the 'best' Nazis and Austrians the 'best' racists.
I remained in ignorance about my father until 1999 when an old and scratched Nestlé tin was found among my mother's things. In it my mother had placed every tangible proof she had of my father's existence: personal letters from him to her, mementos, photos, cards, telegrams, my father's school reports and even the receipt from the guesthouse where my parents had spent the first night of their honeymoon. There were also official letters to my mother about my father's death. I had 'found' my father and I now knew the location of his burial site.
So, at the end of October 2002 I began my journey into 'enemy' territory. The 'enemy' appeared to be friendly. And very helpful. Everyone we met there challenged the prejudices I had irrationally formed about them. But it was Helmut, the taxi driver who became our chauffeur for the day, who compelled me to see the 'enemy' in a new light.
He drove my husband, my daughter and me to the cemetery which was situated in a very remote part of the Lüneburg Heath. So remote in fact that there was not a phone, a shop, a bus stop or a house in sight in any direction. Helmut charged us by time rather than distance for the trip. He also volunteered to wait for us until we had finished saying our goodbyes to my father. He obviously noted the look of concern on my face and assured me that there would be 'no charge' ('ohne Preis') for his time.
Just as I finished my father's eulogy, the threatening sky opened and we ran for shelter from the rain, wind and hail to the stone archway at the entrance to the cemetery. Helmut had also sheltered there and for the next hour we waited for the storm to subside. During that time I told Helmut the story of my parents' life, their short time together of five months before my father was seconded into the RAF and his death on August 13th, 1944. He listened attentively. At the end, he looked out over the thousands of white tombstones and remarked, 'old men declare war but it is young men who fight and die in them.' At 23, my father was one of the oldest buried there.
After the storm abated, Helmut drove us, again 'ohne Preis', past the town of Bergen where we were to catch the bus. He wanted to show us the original NATO headquarters and the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Stopping his taxi in the car park, he urged us to take the time to see the exhibits, the film and the cemetery. Again he assured us that he would wait for us 'ohne Preis.'
We returned to his cab, shaken and overwhelmed. By now it was getting dark; it was raining and very cold. We had not eaten since early breakfast. In answer to my request to take us to the bus stop, he again surprised us. He had a meeting in Celle that evening. He would drive us to our hotel there, 'ohne Preis.'
As we dashed out of his cab, through the cold rain, hungry and tired, I had the inspiration to grab his business card with his contact details on it. I promised to send him a Christmas card.
On our return home to Melbourne, I began to process what had happened. Helmut had, in fact, provided us with a day's chauffeur's service for the cost of a small portion of the cab fare that he was owed. He deserved more than a card. I sent him a book of coloured photos of Australia with a card, and I included in his parcel a calendar of Australian scenes for the ladies in the village store in Unterlüss. They had telephoned him on our behalf from their village store and explained our predicament, convincing him of our need to get to the Englische Friedhof, the English cemetery.
On the anniversary of my father's death, August 13th, I nearly trod on a parcel resting against our front screen door. It was from Helmut. He had been ill, but after his recovery he had tried to get some literature about the cemetery from the local authorities. When this had proven futile, he had written to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission in Belgium and had received a book from them on many of their cemeteries throughout the world. It was included in the parcel with a calendar, a book of reflective poetry, photos of him and his taxi, and a letter. In it, he told us that he had been deeply moved by being involved with my family who had travelled so far and so long after the event to honour a dead relative. The rest of the letter overwhelmed me.
He thanked me for the sacrifice that my father had made to free his country from the madness that had gripped it. He apologised for the suffering that our family had endured on account of the sacrifices made. He also wrote:
'My father's generation ... has been responsible for millions of people's lives and has forever burdened successive generations with grief and taken away from their own descendants a sense of pride in belonging to their race. It will always be for me and for many others of my generation inexcusable, inexplicable, shameful and inconceivable ... These fallen and for what they died must never be forgotten. Their sacrifice reminds humanity of their hope for peace, for freedom, justice and for a new vision of our world.'
He thanked me for the gifts but attested that he hadn't expected anything from me. He would have done what he did many times over. He also thanked Australia for the generous hospitality it had shown to his compatriots who had migrated to Australia in the post-war period.
It was now my turn to return the gratitude by letter. I told him of my grandfather's hatred of Germans that had been instilled in me. I thanked him for being our Good Samaritan, and that his generosity and his letter had been a cathartic moment for me. I was released from the heavy baggage I'd carried around since my childhood—taking on the grief, anger and hatred my family had felt towards a race of people that they saw as subhuman. I hoped it would not offend him. I needed his friendship probably more than he needed mine.
Since then, we have exchanged gifts, cards, Christmas and Easter greetings. In one letter he had a suggestion, which he feared might cause me some anxiety and perhaps pain. He asked for my permission to visit my father's grave on occasions and place some flowers on it. He would understand, he said, if I was against such an idea, seeing that his forebears had been responsible for my father's death.
'Vielen schönen Dank,' I replied. I gave him the necessary information to locate my father's grave and the dates of his birth and death. In an email shortly after, he told me of the visit that he and his wife, Sieglinde, had made to my father's grave on his birthday, 30 April 2004.
'It (the cemetery) was very well kept, the grass had been freshly mown and all the graves are in good condition. Your father's grave is made beautiful with many white blooms. We stood there in silent reflection and lay, in your names, a bunch of flowers, red roses in a vase and a pot plant of red geraniums under the cross ... no one must ever forget, so that it will never happen again and so that these graves will always be a memorial for the living. For us, this cemetery has become a bridge to you and we will often visit it.'
I still receive emails from Helmut. But on VE day 2005, I think of how his German kindness helped me to lay aside the weight of the grief and hatred that I had carried within me for nearly 60 years on behalf of my family. I will always feel a heavy sorrow for my mother whose life ended the day my father was killed. The loss of so many family members in the former Soviet Union saddens me still, but I can no longer hate the 'enemy', whose face is Helmut's: one of kindness, of mutual respect, of vision, of generosity, of idealism and understanding.
Reproduction of material from any Jesuit Publications pages
without written prior permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 2002 Jesuit Publications
PO Box 553 Richmond VIC 3121 Australia
Tel +61 3 9427 7311, Fax +61 3 9428 4450