Escape from Germany (Part 7 – Return to Poland)

The story of the life of my father, Arthur Brown, Topper, as he was known in the Army. He was taken prisoner in the Battle of Dunkirk and remained as a prisoner  of war for almost  five years. He then managed to escape and arrived back in England a few months before the war ended.  This is the last of a series of posts that trace his life, his wartime experience  and the way, years later,  he was finally reunited with the Polish family who saved his life. 

• Part 1 –  Before the War
• Part 2 – Prisoner of War
• Part 3 – In the Prison Camp
• Part 4 – The Final Escape
• Part 5 – Waiting for the Russians
• Part 6 – Going Home

Return to Poland

My father kept in contact with the Polish family that helped him and his comrades when escaping during the war. Two years after the war ended, Marta Szachta, the mother, wrote to my father explaining that her daughter, Kristina was ill with tuberculosis. They were unable to get the medication she needed in Poland. My father contacted the War Office and explained how the family had saved his life. They were responsive to my father’s request and  provided the necessary drugs she needed. Fortunately she made a full recovery.

In 1955, Marta invited my father to her son, Klemen’s wedding. My father was unable to go at that time. In those days, it was difficult to visit the Soviet dominated communist countries.

Klemens, Marta’s son, gets married to Helena.

As the years rolled on, the letters to and from became less frequent and eventually dwindled away.

In  1972, I was nineteen years old, the same age my father was when he was taken prisoner in Dunkirk. I decided I would go to Poland and re-establish contact with the family.

I took a ferry from Sweden to the Polish port of Szczecin, and travelled by train to Gdansk, the nearest large city to the village of Skorcz, where they lived.

In those days there were no computers  and no direct dialing. I went to the  Telephone Exchange in  Gdansk and started looking through the telephone directories for the town of Skorcz.  There was indeed  a Klemens Szachta registered in the directory, but the address was different from the one that my father had given me.

I rang the exchange. Luckily, I had learnt Russian for five years  at school. As Poland was under Soviet influence, many people spoke some Russian. Using my knowledge of the language, I spoke to the telephone operator in Skorcz. “I want to speak to Klemens Szachka”, I said,  and dictated the number to her. However, the operator wouldn’t put the call through, and kept talking to me. I could only understand a few words but one that I recognised  was “wife” , By the most amazing coincidence, the telephone operator I was talking to ….. was Helena, Klemen’s wife.

Klemens Szachta, his wife Helena and their four children.

I was now convinced that this was the destiny of magic as it was all too strange to be real. I made my way by train to the small village, and there they were! There was Klemens who had guided my father from the German column to his mother’s house. And there also, was Marta, Klemens’ mother, who hid my father for five weeks from the Germans. Within minutes, Marta’s brother, Josef arrived. He was the Polish partisan who was hiding in the house along with my father and his three comrades.

The meeting was a very emotional moment, both for me and for them. At about 1.00 a.m. we phoned my father in England.  He was initially worried to be  receiving a phone call from Poland in the middle of the night  but was incredibly excited when he realized that I was with the Szachta family in their house.

Klem, Helena and two of their children – In these pre-digital years I used to take photographic slides.

The amazing coincidence on the telephone, and the experience of being with the family seemed like an unreal but magical dream …..and indeed ….. the strange happenings and coincidences that fired by my youthful sensibility were to continue.

On a Sunday we all went to a nearby lake for a picnic.

By the lake with extended family. me, second left, Josef, standing in the middle, Helena, second right.

  I was at this time quite a shy youngster. I remember looking  out towards the lake, and seeing a young girl, about my age coming out of the water. Completely out of character, and without knowing what I was doing, I approached  her. We started talking in a mixture of languages and spent the afternoon together. Her name was Kristina.  When it was time to go,  she unhooked  her silver crucifix and fastened it around my neck.

Kristina from the lake.

Later……..Klemens reminded me that his sister was also called Kristina. She had recovered from tuberculosis, thanks to the medication sent from England. She was keen on sailing and often came to the lake.

Kristina Szachka boating on the lake

One day she was sailing a boat on this very lake. She fell from the boat and was drowned. This happened in 1953, the year I was born.

Kristina, died 1953

Hearing this was for me like an overcharge of magic. I was convinced that this…… was a sign, that this was indeed…… destiny. On arriving home to  England, I gave the crucifix to my mother and she wore it constantly until the day she died.

Kristina? Appearing from the lake? Was it magic? Was it destiny? I am sorry to say it wasn’t,  It was just a series of coincidences  acting on my young, emotionally charged mind. ( However, I still fondly recall this time as being magical.) I returned the following  year with my father eager to see Kristina again. I saw her, but found sadly  that the magic had been mine alone, not hers…. the moment had passed and the illusion was gone. All that was left of my imagined magic was the photo taken that first day.

On this second trip, in 1973, I went with my father. We set off by train through Belgium and West Germany. All was well until we got to the border between East and West Germany. Arriving at the “Iron Curtain” there were extreme security measures. The train was searched by guards and along the track were soldiers with guard dogs. My father went pale. “I can’t go on!” he said. He simply wanted to abandon the trip and return home. It was as if the past memories were coming to the surface. I tried to reassure him that all would be well, but it was some hours before he recovered his calm and confidence.

My father with Klemens. (Klem was only seventeen when they met in 1945.)

My father’s spirit was soon uplifted when he hugged the family on our arrival. We took several bottles of duty-free spirits for the family. In true Polish fashion, we all celebrated our being together, and the bottles evaporated their contents within a few hours. There was a great feeling of warmness between my father, Marta, Klemens and Josef. It was indeed extremely beautiful and moving to watch.

“Na Zdrowie!” (Cheers) – My father, Klemens and Josef.

Me and Klemens

We went to see the house where they had all hidden. Back in his house, Klemens showed us the old wardrobe which still had a hole where a piece of  shrapnel had passed through the day George, one of my father’s comrades  was wounded in the house.

3 Novy Swiat, where my father hid with his comrades and the Szachta family for five weeks.

My father was very moved by the trip. On returning to England from Poland, he managed to trace the other three prisoners who had hidden with him in the house with the Szachta family.

Klemens with two of my father’s comrades who hid in his house, Harry Masterman and Jim Gallimore.

My father returned to  visit the family four more times, each time, accompanied by some of his his comrades.

• 1979 – With Jim Gallimore and Harry Masterman for Klemen’s son’s First Communion!
• 1980 – With George Wright
• 1991 – With Jim Gallimore and George Wright – for a family wedding.
• 1994 – With George Wright. This was the year Marta died.

So, was there magic? Certainly not with regards of young Kristina! But yes, there was magic indeed. Out of the evilness  of war, my father found his magic through this wonderful Polish family that saved his life.

And through putting together the notes for these seven episodes, I have relived the  emotions of my father’s experiences. I have shed tears, reading his letters, sifting through photographs, and documents and thinking of his young life. I am in awe of Marta and her family who risked their lives for these four British soldiers.

Arthur Brown, my father was always such a loving and gentle man. Dad, I wish you were here and could have helped me to write this. Despite your ordeals, you always looked forward and there was never rencour in your words when you reflected on these difficult times.

We can all learn a lot from your spirit. I am lucky that my life has not been touched directly from war. But war is always with us. … do we ever learn? …….. It appears not …….and the wars still rage on….

Dedicated to the memory of my late father, Arthur “Topper” Brown, Marta Szachta and her son, Klemens Szachta.