Stefan Block

Stephan G. Block was born about 1924. He wrote two articles for the school magazine. The following article appeared in the school magazine in Spring 1940.

Expulsion From Germany

The following report is not meant to arouse disgust at the brutality and coldbloodedness of Nazi methods, or to give revelations about a Nazi prison, but it is to show how Germany plays a political game with thousands of men, women, children and even babies, whose only fault is to be Polish Jews. I was one of those thousands. I used to live in Hamburg and was fourteen years old when Nazi Germany expelled me. Here is my account.

It was the 28th October, 1938, 7 o’clock in the morning. I had just awakened, when I heard a knock at the door. I jumped out of my bed, ran to the door, opened it. A policeman was standing outside. “Heil Hitler!” - “Good morning” - “Is Mrs Block in?”. I called my mother. “Are you Mrs Block?”, the policeman asked her. “Yes” - “Who else of your family is here?” - “My son”. He glanced at some sheets of paper he had with him, and then suddenly said: “You’ll have to come to the police station with me” - I did not trust my ears... Nor did my mother understand what was going on... He would not answer any questions. “You know that we are aliens?” my mother asked him. “Yes”, he said smiling rather strangely. We dressed quickly, hardly washed. We did not eat anything. “You had better put on an overcoat. We left without taking anything with us. On our way, we hardly spoke. Everyone stared at us. My mother was weeping, while I tried to look calm and indifferent, though everything inside me was trembling.

At the police station, I was immediately led into a room where some more people were already waiting. Soon my mother came in too, rather relieved. She told me that it was “only” an expulsion order and nothing worse! Soon we were all busily chatting to one another. All our fellow prisoners had been arrested the same as we, and had also received an expulsion order. It was a mass expulsion of Polish Jews. Most of us were still optimistic, believing that we should be allowed to stay in Germany three more months or so, but some had been informed by their policemen, that we should be exported to the Polish frontier that very day. Gradually more and more people poured in, until finally we were loaded into an open police van. The van drove through all the town in order to collect other prisoners from different police stations. Police vans are well known in Germany, and so every passer by turned round to look. It was especially degrading when the car stopped every now and then, and people gathered around, to look: but we could do nothing except sit still and keep smiling. After having had this ‘trip’ through Hamburg, we finally arrived at our destination - a prison. Men and women were immediately separated, so that I was alone.

“Is there any volunteers to be the first to go into this cell?”, a constable asked, opening the door of a cell. No one answered. So he just chose somebody himself. The following seconds seemed like hours to me. The not knowing where and with whom to go, the uncertainty and fear of what would happen when we were in the cell was the most torturing feeling. So I was rather relieved when about six of us were simply led into a cell, locked up and left to ourselves. The cell was a fairly large room, with six beds, a table and two benches. Soon, however, we were let out again to become registered, and we were also given a cup of substitute coffee. Then began the worst of all. Waiting... waiting... waiting... We did not know what would happen to us. As always in situations like this rumours spread easily. “Colonel Beck (1) in Berchtesgaden to negotiate with Hitler”. “Poland has expelled thousands of Germans”. The jailer told us that we would be released towards the evening. I was lying on a bed all the time, whilst the others discussed the possibilities that might occur. Every now and then some constable or other officer looked into our cell, and the chatting immediately stopped. I imagined what I should do if I were given some time to go home. Very slowly the day passed. We were given dinner. And once more boredom and uncertainty awaited us. Gradually it grew dark. We were given tea. And still uncertainty.

Then suddenly it seemed to us there was some movement in the courtyard. The noise grew. “Was it police vans?”, we asked ourselves, full of misgiving. Suddenly the jailer entered the cell. “You’ll be released at once. Mr. Plant, the solicitor of the Jewish Community of Hamburg is coming. You’ll have to sign a sheet of paper and then you’ll be free to go wherever you like”. All of us rejoiced. And really, Mr. Plant came in. “Could you sign this please?”. An older gentleman took the sheet of paper and started reading it; but immediately his face turned into an expression of utmost disgust. “What is this?”, he uttered. The solicitor read it aloud. We were to give a power of attourney to the Jewish Community of Hamburg, enabling it to enter our houses and represent us in liquidation of our household. This meant that we should never go home again; that we should be deported to Poland that evening... The solicitor, though he was sorry for us, had to do his duty and be firm. So he said in a rough tone: “Hurry up please!” Once more we were left alone, this time knowing only too well what would happen to us. Soon we were loaded into a police van again, and driven to the small neighbouring town of Altona, in order to give as little publicity as possible to our deportation. Large crowds were looking on when we entered the station. We had a special platform. The station loudspeaker announced that several trains would leave a different platform than the usual, but not announcing the reason. I had not yet met my mother and was walking up and down the platform looking for her. In my despair, I addressed some strange woman, believing she was my mother. When the train arrived, I got in, not knowing how to find my mother; but I could not stay inside, until I had found her. So I got outside again, and suddenly heard someone calling: “Stefan - Stefan - Stefan - “. I found my mother weeping terribly. I believe, more than the leaving of Germany, it was the exciting experiences we had had and the leaving everything behind, that made her weep so terribly. Inside the train, there was a scene of distress. Men and women, old men and babies, were crowded together. That was the chaos when we left. I had a last look at the buildings of Altona and Hamburg, which were so well known to me. I left Hamburg with a feeling of joy mixed with fear: joy, because I knew this was my chance to start life afresh; fear, because there was once more uncertainty: what will Poland do with us?

Each carriage was guarded by two soldiers, one at each door. They were quite agreeable fellows; they only did their duty. One of them even gave a game of playing cards to some men. It was a terrible night. Having had all this excitement, I was rather tired, but I could not sleep. At five o’clock the next morning, we arrived at Neu-Bentschen, the German frontier town Under the supervision of policemen and soldiers, we left the train and had to march the three miles to the frontier. But even then the brutality of the police had no end. Some of the unfortunately expelled had been able to take some personal belongings with them; but on the march, the cases and bags became rather a heavy burden and, as no slowing down of the marching was allowed, they had to leave them by the roadside. After about one hour, we arrived at the frontier. Then happened something completely unexpected. Behind us we had about 200 German soldiers with bayonets, threatening to shoot us if we did not leave German soil at once. Opposite were some ten Polish soldiers, with bayonets, refusing us admission into Poland without reason. Suddenly - a shot. It was shot in the air from a Polish soldier. I shall never forget the scene that followed. About one thousand men, women and children surrounded by hundreds of bayonets did not know where to go. There was loud crying and endless lamentation. One despairing woman tried to run back to germany, but was immediately stopped by a bayonet. At that moment some fifty people started pouring into Poland over the invisible frontier line. This was the signal for us all to flee. Someone shouted: “Lie down!”, and everyone lay down, but nothing happened. So we went on running... running... running... During those few seconds, we had been moving only about 50 yards, but we had moved from one country into another and no force on earth could have taken us back.

Notes

1. Jozek Beck, Polish minister of Foreign Affairs.

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The following article appeared in the school magazine in Summer 1940.

Zbaszyn

Unlike many other German refugees who came to this country diectly from Germany, I had the rather more “romantic” experience of being expelled from Germany to Poland. For three months, I lived in a small frontier town in an infamous camp.

In the early hours of the 29th October, 1938, I was among 6,000 Polish Jews, who were waiting at the border of a small wood on the Polish-German frontier. Five minutes before, I had been on the German side of the frontier post. We waited for more than an hour, before we finally continued our way along the road into Poland. After three miles, we came to some buildings, the first signs of a town, and soon we met a policeman. “Prosze panie”, he said, indicating some horse stables. These surrounded a fairly large square, where already thousands of other refugees were waiting, waiting - for what? Many Polish women, realising that some business could be done, had arrived with coffee and tea. They had brought with them petrol stoves and three or four cups. People formed long queues to drink coffee - or was it coloured water? - out of cups which were passed around without being washed. My mother and myself happened to have two marks on us, and so the first thing we did was have some coffee. With the money left, we were just able to send a telegram to my uncle in Poland, asking him for some money.

In the meantime representatives of a Warsaw committee had arrived to take a register of all refugees. Current reports said that everyone was to be issued with a free ticket to go to any town they liked. People were forming long queues to get registered. Everyone was excited and nervous. Everywhere one saw hunger and poverty. My mother had met an uncle of mine, who had been expelled too, and, in common, we secured some straw, with which to improvise a ‘bed’. We went into a wooden shed, in which already hundreds of people had sought shelter. It was only 5 p.m., but I was so tired that I fell aslepp immediately. The most terrible day yet in my life had come to an end.

The next morning we got up early. It was terribly cold. Many people were preparing to leave with the first transport into inner Poland, which was due to leave at about 10 o’clock. All the people concerned had gathered together, and they were waiting to march to the station in a few minutes. Suddenly, the following announcement was made by a representative of the Warsaw Committee: “The Polish authorities have just announced that no refugee is allowed to leave”. For some time the people seemed speechless, as though they could not grasp the fact. Slowly they went back into their sheds and stables asking themselves: “How long is this going to last?”. Not knowing what to do, my mother and I were walking about in the neighbourhood of the camp. At the post office, crowds were listening to someone, who was calling out hundreds of names- names of persons who had received money. We listened, and listened... and listened, but there was nothing for us. Being very bored, I was looking round for some friends, when I noticed a shield on one wall of the post office. I spelt: Z-B-A-S-Z-Y-N, ZBASZYN. (1) And only then I noticed the railway platform. So this place was called Zbaszyn... “They are giving out bread up the road”, I heard somebody say, so I hurried along the road. From a horse-cart, pieces of bread were handed out to the refugees. After half an hour, I was fortunate enough to get a slice; it was to be my only meal for the day. Slowly the day passed by - my second day in Poland.

Polish jews being deported to Zbaszyn

(Copyright HEART 2007)

The first thing next morning, we found the exit of the camp guarded by two sentries. Nobody was allowed to leave. Finally two officials arrived, announcing that everybody had to have his passport stamped. Again we had to queue up and, after more than an hour, I found myself the fortunate owner of still another stamp on my passport. My mother was already waiting outside the camp, and we immediately went to the post office, but no money had yet arrived. Many people had already received money from relatives, and had moved out of the camp into private rooms. Again the day passed slowly, and evening approached. My third day in Poland had passed.

The first thing next morning was to go to the post office. That time we were luckier. My uncle in Poland had sent us 90 slotys. My uncle who had been expelled with us had also received a little money, and so we were able to rent a small room together and have something to eat. The greatest need had been overcome, but from on, we were to have the humiliating feeling of being forced to ask our relatives for money, or else starve; we were to be a burden to other people and to ourselves as well. We were not allowed to leave or got to work. The only hope was to emigrate for then was allowed to leave. Therefore the first thing we did as soon as we had settled a little was to send an SOS to our friends in England. Nobody can describe the joyful feeling when, after a few days, we received a telegram from England promising every possible help. We could again look forward to a future, and this made it easier for us to endure the present.

Jewish prisoners at Zbaszyn

(Copyright HEART 2007)

It would be impossible now to relate exactly my stay in Zbaszyn. Thus I can give only a general impression of the camp and mention the most important points.

After a few days, the “Ogolny Komitet Pomocy Uchodrom 2 Niemiec”, the “Committee for the Aid of Refugees from Germany”, was doing enormous work. Small rooms had been improvised as centres for the refugees to be given their food and, after about a week, the Committee had bought a house for their main office. Ration cards were issued, so that everyone got his fair share of food. People who had rented private rooms received a subsidy towards their rent, whilst the others, who had gradually been accommodated in various big buildings, were completely cared for as far as shelter and food were concerned. Many other things, such as stamps and repair of shoes, were provided by the Committee. All this was paid for with money which came from the poor jews in Poland, who made the greatest sacrifices in order to give money to the Committee. Besides vast sums of money came from people in the USA and in England. There was also a special post office for the refugees; they themselves distributed the mail. At a big, empty hall near the station, the mail was given out. Each distributor was allocated one letter of the alphabet. All persons who’s surname began with that letter could thus easily get their mail. As I was too young to do any of these jobs but wanted to help somewhere, I volunteered as office-boy for the Committee, as many other boys had done. Mostly I was sent on errands, but also made telephone calls, copied lists, and performed any other work I could do.

In contrast to this somewhat organised Committee, were the chaotic conditions that prevailed in the various camps. Hundreds lived in an old mill: others in an unused dance hall. Others and many other children who had been expelled without their parents were living in a big hall, which had previously been used for gymnastics. On my errands, I often went to those places and had an opportunity of seeing the distress and poverty. Once or twice epidemics broke out in those camps, owing to the insanitary conditions. Nobody was allowed to leave or enter at that time, and every week, especially the first one, people died. How fortunate I was, not to live in those dwellings.

Since November 9th, when the pogroms in Germany presented the world with the urgent problem of 500,000 would be refugees, we had dropped more and more into the background. At the end of November, we received some of our clothing which had been sent to us from  Hamburg, and I was thus able to change my clothing for the first time for more than a month. The year drew towards its end with no prospect of a happy future for me, but with the rather disagreeable idea that my stay in Poland would be permanent. All efforts to obtain a permit for me to stay in England had failed thus far.

On January 1st, 1939, when still in bed, I heard the bell ring and, a few seconds later, our landlady rushed into our room with a letter from England for “Stefan Block, Esq.” On opening it, I saw it had come by “Express Delivery”. I read “Dear Stefan, after a long struggle I have finally succeeded in obtaining the permit for you to come to England, and the official document will be sent off within the next two or three days. I therefore ask you...”. I could not go on without letting my mother know first. “Mummy”, I waked her, “Mummy, I have got the permit”.

The next three weeks were weeks of feverish preparation. My passport had to be prolonged - that alone took a fortnight - and only then could I book for a ship. I was to leave Zbaszyn for Gdynia on the 26th, and leave Gdynia on the 27th. The time passed quickly and then - the 26th was there.

My train was due to leave at 9 p.m. At 8.30 my mother, my uncle, and myself left our house. We talked little as we went along the lonely road. I met avriend of mine. “Goodbye”, I said to him. At first he stared at me, and only then he recognised me. “Goodbye, and all the best!”; and he added, “You know you’re very lucky!”. The entrance to the station was guarded by two sentries to watch that no refugee left Zbaszyn, except for going abroad. My mother was not allowed to go onto the platform, and so we spent the last few minutes outside the station. Shortly before 9 o’clock, I was told by the sentries to get onto the train. Hastily I said goodbye to everyone, gave a kiss to my mother, and away I was... When would I see my mother again?

I arrived at Gdynia the next morning, to leave in the evening. The route was Gdynia - Kiel - Kiel canal - Harwich. The voyage passed quickly and after three days, the ship approached Harwich. As soon as we had moored by the quayside, British officials came aboard. After having passed the medical inspection and the Passport Control, I left the ship to set my foot on English soilfor the first time. At the station of the LNER, I was given a ticket to London and then got on the train. I looked at my passport and saw: 30 Jan. 1939, and I added: “Exactly six years after that dictator came to power”. After exactly six years of aggression, I had entered a country where people enjoyed freedom. I had learned to admire it; at last I was going to enjoy it too.

Notes

Zbaszyn (now known as Zbaszynek) was a transit camp on the railroad from Frankfurt to Poznan. It held some 5,500 Polish refugees. One internee Zindal Grynszpan wrote a postcard to his son Herschel in Paris describing the conditions at the camp. Herschel, enraged by what he read, assassinated the German diplomat Ernst Vom Rath. The Germans used this as an excuse launch the Kristellnacht pogrom.