From camp barracks to living free in Australia

This account of the journey from Germany to Australia was published in several editions of Tėviškės Aidai in 1960, by Juozas Binkevičius. Juozas and his wife Stefanija and his children Rimantas and Grazina boarded the ship, Nelly, arriving in Melbourne on 5 September 1949. Over the next few posts, I will share his detailed journey.

We registered to emigrate to Australia on January20, 1949, at our camp in the British Zone. The next day, an IRO officer arrived at the camp and added us to the list of candidates.

We hadn’t had a chance to register for emigration to the USA yet—mainly because doing so required guarantees of housing and employment. We were also somewhat hesitant about going to America, as there were rumours that jobs were hard to find, the cost of living was high, and our 15-year-old son would likely have to start working, which would disrupt his education. At one time, Canada had seemed like a more appealing destination, but we didn’t have the opportunity to go there either. We were also disappointed that several families who had emigrated to those countries never sent back any news.

Meanwhile, Australia was becoming a more common destination for families. A friendly former "dipukas" (DP, displaced person), Stasys Mingaila, had already written us a couple of letters with more objective information, which encouraged us to take this step. May God help us pass all the health checks, political screenings, and inspection commissions successfully!

Life in the camp under the new German currency had become extremely difficult.  As more people arrived, my work as a teacher at the camp's Lithuanian gymnasium came to an end. Until February 1, 1949, I had been receiving 100 DM per month. After that, the salaries of four teachers, paid from the German treasury, had to be split among ten of us.  Eventually, after much difficulty, I managed to receive unemployment benefits of 28.80 DM per week, which somewhat improved our situation.

My sister had already left for France. We accompanied her to the train station in tears, not knowing w

hat the future would hold for any of us. An epidemic of emigration had overtaken the camp. More and more rooms in the barracks were emptying by the day, and there was a great demand for boxes and other packing materials.

Finally, after several postponed departures, we set off on May 27, 1949, in IRO trucks bound for the Münster transit camp.  Saying goodbye to friends and neighbours with whom we had shared the barracks—and so many hardships and moments of joy—was very painful. Parting from our brother-in-law, who was then head of the national groups in the camp, was especially difficult. We couldn’t forget the sight of him standing in the middle of the road, tearfully watching our truck as it pulled away.

We stayed in Münster until July 5th—five long and difficult weeks. The food was extremely poor, and we had no money to buy better. Thankfully, the kind Mrs. Chinienė, who remained in the Augustdorf camp, heard about the conditions at this “starvation camp” and sent us delicious baked goods, which we gratefully ate.  People in the camp were outraged by the situation. In addition to the hunger, there was a kind of moral coercion at play.  We weren’t even allowed to take a simple cup of coffee from the canteen.  Everyone had to endure in silence, fearing that any complaints might jeopardize their chance to emigrate to Australia.

During this time, I often visited the camp chapel, asking God for help—help we truly needed. There, we found comfort and encouragement from a young, kind Lithuanian priest.  Sadly, after so many years, I can no longer recall his name, but I remain grateful for his support.  God heard our prayers.  My family and I passed all the formalities successfully and without issue.

One moment that stands out was when my eleven-year-old daughter became tearful after an ophthalmologist told her that one of her eyes was slightly weak. She was terrified that it would ruin everything—that her condition might prevent the whole family from going overseas. It took considerable effort to reassure her that this small issue wouldn’t stand in the way of our emigration.

We were interviewed by the Consul, a brown-haired man people jokingly called “the grumpy one.” To our surprise, he was extremely kind, and the visit went quickly and smoothly.  He asked if I—having once been registered as a worker—would be able to perform manual labour. Apparently, the fact that my passport listed me as a "Worker" caused no concern.  After passing the commission, we were placed on the list of "New Australians," and many who hadn’t yet gone through the process looked on with envy.