From camp barracks to living free in Australia part II

The Binkevičius  family journey to Australia on the ship, Nelly.

On August 5th, we were transported to Seedorf, near Zeven, where we stayed for 19 days. We were given a private room, but to our dismay, it was infested with disgusting parasites. Although food rations had been reduced, we were given some supplies and allowed to cook "at home." We gathered branches and chestnuts from the nearby forest, and on warm days, the room would get unbearably hot from the cooking. Mr. J. Jasiūnas occasionally helped us with food. We got along well with his family and with the family of Mr. Sedalis. Mr. Sedalis would sometimes visit his former private apartment in western Germany, and after these trips, we would have little “feasts”—real bean coffee and even smoked eels. At times, we had more of these luxuries than we did bread or meat from our rations.

By then, Seedorf had been transformed into a transit-only camp. Our close friends, the Protas family, who had lived there for many years, were no longer around. The monumental cross built by Lithuanians stood neglected. We would have liked to care for it, but we had no means to do so.

Despite the hardships, we were eager to leave Seedorf and move closer to our destination. Yet the thought of leaving Europe for good—of leaving our homeland, our relatives, and perhaps even our mother’s grave behind—was deeply painful. Still, the day finally came. We were given the opportunity to leave.

First, we received our transport numbers: I was number 130, my wife was 131, my son was 132, and my daughter was 133. Afterward, we went for a medical examination, handed in our blankets, and my wife and I each received 100 Diamond cigarettes, while the children got some sweets.

We didn’t take any food supplies for the journey—mainly because we didn’t have any—and we were so accustomed to going without food that it didn’t seem like a big deal to go hungry for another three weeks. At 1:00 PM, we were given food cards, but we only bought a pound of butter, as we didn’t have money for meat. We gave the remaining food cards to a German railwayman at the first Austrian station.

When we left Seedorf, I had 2.50 DM in my pocket and a “reserve” of two Australian pounds. We were taken to Zeven station after midnight, where our family of four, along with two elderly Ukrainians, was assigned one carriage (compartment). A German customs officer came aboard and briefly checked my wallet and my wife’s handbag. As a precaution, we hid a small camera (a Zeiss-Ikonta) under our daughter’s coat.

We departed from Zeven station on Sunday, July 19, 1949, at 7:00 AM, after spending the night in the carriage. The first night was uncomfortable; we had to sit up to sleep due to the lack of space. The second and third nights were much better as we spread out on the floor of the compartment.

On the first day, we travelled through Germany. It didn’t hold much interest for us because we had become so familiar with the sights of Germany over the years. Everywhere we looked, there were beautiful brick buildings, well-dressed people, orderly traffic, and a high number of cars and bicycles. Everything seemed to exude seriousness, order, and a sense of self-confidence. Still, many Germans envied us, the emigrants, because life there was hard. Jobs were scarce, unemployment was high, and although stores were filled with goods—especially industrial products—there was no money to buy anything.

The food provided on the train was quite bearable. For lunch, we had warm canned soups—peas, tomatoes, and meat—and in the mornings and evenings, we were served white coffee. In between, we ate black bread, butter, a little cheese, and some meat. While food wasn’t the main concern during this journey, it wasn’t a problem either.

Our train journey in Germany took us through Nienburg, a place we had once ridden through on horseback during our earlier travels from Westergellersen near Lüneburg to Delmold Hiddesen. By 2:00 PM, we arrived in Göttingen. Many displaced persons from the local camp were there to see off their relatives and acquaintances. I bought a "Wochenend" newspaper for 30 pfennigs. During the era of the new currency, newspapers were plentiful in Germany, but unfortunately, we could rarely afford them. Going to the cinema had also become an unattainable luxury, especially in the transit camps. A glass of beer, priced at 30 pfennigs, was another pleasure beyond our reach.

Our train, consisting of long, comfortable Pullman carriages, continued on its journey along the following route: Eschwege West, Bebra (the same route we had taken on our Alpine excursion to Augustdorf in 1947), then on to Bad Hersfeld, Hünfeld, and Elm. Elm, like many other places in this region, was set in an incredibly picturesque landscape. We all crowded together at the windows, marvelling at the views.

At Elm station, a German railwayman, watching the departing passengers with a hint of envy, shared that the local people were struggling with the new currency. According to him, many were living in poverty, unable to make ends meet. Some even resorted to selling their fat and meat ration cards. He mentioned that there were about 16 million such poor people in the country.

The train continued through Gemuenden and Schweinfurt, the latter being the first city to experience a massive air attack by Allied bombers, which ultimately decided the fate of the “Air Battle of London.” It was already dark when we passed through, so we couldn’t see much. After the rich impressions of the day, we retired to our compartments to sleep. By the time we arrived in Munich, we were already asleep, but we woke up around 5 AM.

To our surprise, our train, instead of being pulled by a steam locomotive, was now being hauled by an electric engine. After a couple of hours, we were traveling through the heart of Bavaria, passing distinctive Bavarian buildings and lush green pastures where cows grazed. Each cow had a bell tied around its neck, which seemed designed to make it easier to find a lost one in the mountains.

Soon, the majestic Alps began to appear, and we marvelled at their size and beauty. Standing before such massive mountains, it’s impossible not to feel the great power of God and the relative insignificance of man. The Alps’ overwhelming beauty made everything else seem small and fleeting.

As our train approached the Austrian border, we passed through Rosenheim, Fischbach/Inn, and Kieferfelden. We hardly noticed the crossing itself; the border posts with “Duane-Zoll” signs flashed by in an instant. The railway line runs between two mountain ranges, and as we entered Austria at Kufstein, the landscape became even more breathtaking. There, we saw a lake and a castle perched high on a hill—scenes that were nearly impossible to fully take in.

At Kufstein station, we were delayed for about three hours. One of the three freight cars carrying our luggage had broken down; the axle had caught fire. The damaged car had to be replaced with an Austrian one, and all the belongings were transferred. Fortunately, our family’s things were not in that car.

At this border station, people exchanged the last of their German money. The exchange rate was 30 Austrian schillings for 1 DM. Some bought postcards and stamps, while I splurged on a chocolate bar for 1 DM. Our family—my wife, 15-year-old son, 11-year-old daughter, and myself—was in good spirits, excited about the journey ahead and curious about what Australia would bring. There was talk of possible customs controls. Would they happen or not? As a precaution, I hid my daughter’s camera under her wide dress, our trusty companion on this journey, and the “fifth member” of the family. My wife took charge of the stamp collection, while my wife and daughter tucked a couple of Australian pounds into their socks and shoes. Fortunately, our nervousness was unfounded, as the Austrians decided against conducting any controls.

We moved on, passing through Brixlegg, Jenbach, Soal Bad, and Tyrol. Around lunchtime, we reached Innsbruck, Austria’s fourth-largest city after Vienna, Graz, and Linz. The city was roughly the size of Kaunas, back home. In Innsbruck, we had soup for lunch, and I had a conversation with one of the train conductors. He explained that their engines were German-made AEGs, each with 600 horsepower.

Soon after leaving Innsbruck, we entered a tunnel. Our lively, diverse journey continued through the Austrian Tyrol, with its stunning mountains and breathtaking views. Here, the traditional “Bavarian” buildings continued to stand proudly, a testament to the region’s rich history. Despite the beauty of the land, life here seemed harsh in many places, particularly for the elderly, as farms high in the mountains were hard to reach and even harder to work.

The train twisted through the foothills of the mountains, passing through tunnels and valleys. The air felt fresh, and the landscape was a joy to breathe in. Soon, we reached the Italian border. On the Austrian side, there was a small lake at Brenner, a modest stop before we crossed into Italy. We entered a narrow gorge between two mountains and arrived at the Italian Brenner station, still under construction.

This was a historical place—once, dictators Hitler and Mussolini had met here for the last time. It seemed the Italians were working to build a grand station, decorated with traditional columns. The station was lively, with uniformed officers, mostly policemen, called “carabinieri.” As our train came to a halt, several policemen approached and locked the carriage doors.

The cleanliness at this station was a stark contrast to what we had left behind in Germany. The station was dirty, with paper scattered all over the place, and the people appeared dishevelled—wearing untidy clothes and looking unkempt.  Even the uniforms of the officials were far from neat.

Another train from and to Austria passed by. Through the windows, we could see people carrying their suitcases to customs, opening them for inspection. A Catholic priest rushed by a couple of times—quick and lively, as is typical of the Italian temperament. He wore a cassock, which seemed a rarity in these times, and it reminded me of the priests I’d seen in Lithuania years ago.

Our group was preparing for a possible inspection, which we feared might be coming. The camera was entrusted to our daughter, Grazina, and my wife hid a family heirloom ring.

Soon, the policemen arrived at our carriages and began checking the identification numbers of our “dipukas” pinned to our chests. They called out our numbers in Italian, making the process sound almost comical. My own number, 130, was read aloud as “cento trienta,” which, at first, sounded more like “trantatuja” to me. We all burst into laughter. I jokingly told them that I had been a “dipukas” before I became an “emigrant,” and now I had apparently become a “trantatuja.”

Our compartment neighbor, Mr. Buštas, had brought an empty 2-liter bottle and, with the help of a railwayman, managed to fill it with red wine. In exchange, he gave the man two packs of Diamond IRO cigarettes, a gift from my former benefactor. However, the wine turned out to be a weak, sour variety—typical of the Italian reds, which were of poor quality.

An hour later, two more uniformed officers walked through the carriages, briefly glancing at our belongings. It was as if the customs formalities had never happened.

At the station, we spoke with a young Italian who had a friendly demeanour. He was traveling on the next train from Austria and, upon learning that we were on our way to Australia, spoke openly and critically about life in Italy. He complained about the country's difficulties, though he noted that the situation had stabilized somewhat economically in recent years. He also mentioned that there were several million illiterate people in Italy.

In his opinion, it was good that we were leaving Europe, a place still reeking of gunpowder. According to him, the communists were doing well because there were so many poor and dissatisfied people. I asked him if the Pope’s decree on excommunicating communist Catholics had had any real impact, and he confirmed that it had. He emphasized that Italians were very religious and that the kind of "Gottglaubige" (believers in God) we had seen during the Nazi era no longer existed here. He added that the Marshall Plan had done a great deal to help Italy recover economically.

The young Italian teacher spoke candidly about life in Italy, pointing out that ministers, diplomats, and speculators were the ones who truly thrived here, earning vast sums of money. Regarding the black market, he remarked that “Italy is a country where you can do anything.” We soon wished each other luck and said goodbye, as our train was scheduled to leave Italy late in the evening.

As the train picked up speed, it surged through Italy like a wild stallion. In some places, it rushed down hills at full speed, even with the brakes on, causing the smell of burning oil to fill the air. The friction from the heated axles and steel beneath the carriages created an intense heat. When the train stopped, we could see the smoke rising from under the carriages, the result of the scorching oil.

We passed through Vipiteno-Sterzing, Bressanone, and by dusk, we arrived at Bolzano-Bozen. This was a large city set in an incredibly beautiful location, nestled in a valley between the mountains. It reminded us of Innsbruck, but Bolzano was far more picturesque. The slopes surrounding the city were covered with grapevines and fruit trees. The entire area looked like a vast garden, almost like paradise on earth. I was struck by the fact that, until now, the train had always left at dusk.

At each station, the names were displayed in both Italian and German. I wondered if this was a legacy of Hitler and Mussolini’s “Axis” friendship, still honoured today. It turns out that many residents in these regions are of German-Austrian descent, making the use of both languages necessary. These areas were once part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and their historical roots are evident in the dual language signs.