Dancing Under the Red Star (38 page)

I continued to miss my friends until one of them came to visit us from Paris. Mama and I had known this dear woman since our days in the American Village in Gorky. She had lost her husband, sister, and brother-in-law during the purges of 1937-38 and had finally escaped from Russia to Poland. There she managed to raise her infant son and orphaned niece. She had entered France to visit her sister, who had been a member of the French Resistance during the German occupation. She was a true survivor; she had it inside her not to give in but to triumph over all opposition. She made it out, to complete the life they could never take from her. She was too strong for them. Like so many of the women I knew in Russia, her character shone in adversity. She has an eternal place in my heart, and perhaps I have one in hers as well.

The joy of her visit was a painful contrast to my marriage. In the spring of 1959, my husband was granted a one-month vacation in a German resort, fully paid by the government. He departed alone, said his good-byes, and sent me a few postcards. I expected him to return on a certain date, but he did not come. I began to worry and wrote a letter to the director of the resort, asking for information. He wrote back that Günter had left the resort at the official end of his stay, “together with one of the women who had been there with him.” I was stunned, but after a while I realized that the signs had been there. There had been other infidelities, but this time I wasn’t going to tolerate it. When he finally did return, days later, he gave one of his typical excuses, but I confronted him with the truth. I watched as he adamantly gestured this way and that, still denying what he had done.

This was the man I had sworn a lifelong allegiance to, under God. We had taken an oath that I regarded seriously and he did not. Because he was the father of my child, I returned with him to our day-to-day existence, in two rooms of someone else’s apartment, in the middle of Nowhere, West Germany. Though Hanover was, and is, a lovely German city, it didn’t really matter to me anymore, because I was lost and miserable. I was in prison again, only this time as a free woman.

Günter returned to work for Volkswagen, and we continued to reside—but certainly not live—together. Every Friday he would pack a suitcase and take it with him to work. He wouldn’t return until the following Monday night, bringing his suitcase of soiled clothes for me to wash. This went on for some time, with many ugly scenes between us. Probably because of his own frustrations and guilt, he became increasingly abusive toward Karl and me. Günter made no attempt to restore our marriage; it had become a facade. We could not continue under these conditions. In fact, there were days I believed he might kill me. I knew I needed help, some kind of divine guidance.

Finally one day he didn’t come home at all. I didn’t miss him terribly and waited three weeks before going to the police to file a missing-persons report. I was still concerned for his safety, at least for the man I used to know. I hoped that man was still inside him, but I had no more time or patience to look for him. Günter had already appeared and disappeared too many times, and now he was long gone.

Another month passed, and still no word from Günter. Now I was convinced that he was gone for good. Something had to be done. There was no money coming in, and there was no one else to provide for my family. I looked to God for help; I had nowhere else to turn.

My neighbor told me about the Telefunken factory’s ad in the newspaper. Telefunken was a major German audio communications and telephone enterprise. I applied for a job, took an aptitude test, and was immediately hired as an inspector. Shortly thereafter I was promoted to aligner. It was a good job, and I rapidly advanced to the top in that department, making friends and earning a good wage. I continued to work there from June 15, 1959, until November 15, 1961.

Since I was caring for Karl and Mama, I needed to free myself from my nonexistent marriage. I finally engaged the services of a lawyer. After filing for divorce, I would have to wait another six months before it was final. The date for our hearing was posted in the courthouse to notify the public and, presumably, Günter. He had left no forwarding address, so my lawyer could not send him the court summons.

Little Karl had a history of sore throats, and now he had to have his tonsils removed. When he was released from the hospital in Hanover, he needed to recuperate. Like almost all the children in Hanover, he suffered from a form of bronchial asthma, brought on by the continuous damp climate. He went away to the island of Spiekeroog, in the North Sea. He returned much stronger, and we decided to visit a good friend of ours in Italy. She had traveled with us from Detroit to Russia in 1932, along with her husband and nine-month-old son. They had somehow survived the terrible purges in Russia and were eventually permitted to leave the country and settle in Turin. We visited them in July 1960 for ten days. The time was delightful for me, but Karl seemed uncomfortable and uneasy. The very day we returned from Italy, Karl broke out with the measles.

In August 1960 I was officially granted a divorce. Because my husband was absent, the procedure was brief and to the point. My mother and my landlord testified to Günter’s abandonment and his physical violence and brutality, especially toward his son. I requested no child support, because I intended to return to the United States as soon as possible. I was not aware that, by German law, when child abuse is alleged during any court procedure, the state automatically initiates a civil case against the guilty party. If convicted, the abuser could be imprisoned.

The police found Günter in Bremen and notified him of the court’s ruling and the consequences he faced for mistreating his son. Like a streak of light, Günter came running to me in Hanover, begging me to drop the charges. I explained to him that I had not initiated any action against him. Together we composed a letter to the court. I stated that I believed Günter to be sincere in his repentance, and I asked the court to discontinue any pending criminal procedures against him. I signed this paper and submitted it to the courthouse. Red tape kept me waiting three more months, and then the divorce was final. I never saw Günter again.

Twenty-Five

COMING HOME

T
he curtain closed on my failed pas de deux with Günter. My life in Russia, and now in Germany, was also coming to a close. And I was anxiously looking forward to the next act: our return to America. But this was not simple or guaranteed.

The horrible advice I was given at the embassy in Berlin had created an unforeseen problem. In applying for a German passport, I had inadvertently given up my American citizenship. Now I learned that, under American law, I would have continued to be a citizen of the United States during the years I was in Russia, even though I could not afford to extend my passport. By the careless stroke of someone else’s pen, I had lost my citizenship rights and could no longer return home as an American. My request to immigrate was now suspect. In a flurry of visits to the American Embassy in Hamburg, I was thoroughly and not so subtly grilled by the vice consul of the embassy. I had to defend the purposes for my desired U.S. immigration. Furthermore, I would have to wait my turn to immigrate to the United States, according to the quota for West Germany. Over and over I protested, “But wait… How can this be? I was…I mean, I
am,
an American citizen!”

But I did not just sit back and despair. I did all I could, gathering the documents we would need. I wrote innumerable letters to friends and relatives in the States, primarily to my cousins Lucy and Ernst in New York and to my cousin Theresa in Cincinnati. I also wrote to friends in Detroit, soliciting their official sponsorship. It didn’t seem right to need a sponsor to return to my country of origin, but I was determined to get there regardless of the red tape. Theresa and her husband, Chris, soon sent us an official affidavit of sponsorship. Now we could go to Ohio when our turn finally came.

In the winter of 1960, U.S. authorities sent me a letter summoning me to Hameln. This is the city made famous in the fairy tale where the renowned Pied Piper led the rats out of town. I hoped that was a good omen! The authorities photographed my Russian passport and interrogated me for two hours. Particulars of my early life in Detroit were closely scrutinized. The officials also questioned me extensively about the fur coat I was wearing. It was a gift I had received from an anonymous American during my brief stay at the refugee camp in Friedland.

Then I returned to Hanover to await word regarding our request. For nearly a year we heard nothing whatsoever. I went to work every day, and Mama looked after Karl, but we felt as if we were suspended in the air, not really here, and not able to move, either.

Finally, the phone rang one day. A man from the German emigration office in Berlin said, “Miss Tobien, I have some good news for you. Your papers have been approved for your immigration to America. I am sending them to you today…”

In the sheer euphoria of the moment, I must have hung up the phone, because I don’t remember saying anything to him in return. I just remember my heart beating wildly, and then I ran to grab Karlie and Mama. This was the news we had been waiting for, the best news in my entire life!

A hectic time followed. There were many final details and preparations, all undertaken with a whole new mind-set, a freshness of energy, and a quickening of my spirit.
We were really going back home!
Because only a certain weight was allowed per ticket, we had to get rid of most of our belongings and find suitable crates to pack the rest. And I had to obtain a formal discharge from the factory. We said our farewells to the dear friends who shared the apartment, whom I continued to correspond with for many years. There were many pressures, but it was one of the most exhilarating phases of my life.

The day of departure came at last. As in the dream that consumed my thoughts for years, we took a taxi to the railroad station, boarded the train at about six in the evening, and only five hours later arrived in Rotterdam, Holland. We spent the night in a hotel. Karl slept like a rock, but Mama and I hardly slept at all. Our emotions and adrenaline were running much too high to allow for something as optional as sleep!

I had spent many oppressive years in prison, in seclusion, mostly helpless and many times hopeless, but now I was going home. I had to pinch myself, wondering,
Can this really be happening?

The following morning, November 21, 1961, we boarded our beautiful ship and set sail just before noon. It was the SS
Statendam
of the Holland-American Line, a wonderful introduction to our new life. In the dining room, I was thrilled to see stalks of celery again—one of life’s simple pleasures and something I had not seen for twenty-nine years! Mama and I sat in our stateroom filled with unspeakable thanks. This day—this one particular day—was the dawning of a new beginning! It was freedom, fresh air, new life, the fulfillment of my vision at last! We were finally on our way
home
to the United States of America.

Our crossing met with an especially rough storm in the Atlantic, lasting two full days, and we all had some mild seasickness. But after that it was smooth sailing all the way. On November 29, 1961, at about six in the morning, in the far distance we saw that beautiful lady, the exquisite Statue of Liberty at the entrance to New York Harbor. Pure joy and delight poured over me and flowed into my soul as I gazed at her sheer magnificence. It was not the tradition of watching for the statue or even her meaning as a powerful patriotic symbol that moved me. It was what she represented to me specifically and personally at that very moment. It was indescribable; words do not do justice.

Memories of all the years behind me—both good and bad—came rushing in, clarifying who I was and who I was created to be. I realized that my life had already been more than remarkable; it had been miraculous. Someday I would have to speak of it. My story was too much to keep bottled inside. My life had been stolen from me, but now it was being returned. The forces of evil had destroyed much of my life, yet, if but for a moment, I almost felt as if I hadn’t missed a thing. I knew I could just as easily have died out there, given up and folded my hands. Many others had done that. I knew them. I knew their faces. But God had other plans. God had given me a chance in a million, a chance to start all over again. I was free. Here was my life, waiting for me, as if I had just been born.

There was no way that any of it could have happened without the ever-merciful hand of God: the power that simply cannot be defined, contained, or understood. And there wasn’t a thing I could have done to earn it. It just was because
he
is! His ways are beyond comprehension or explanation. He’s the one who said, “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.”

That was the certainty that rested upon my heart as I peered longingly into the harbor of my country, barely able to contain myself. It was no accident or coincidence that had brought me home again. No, it was part of a divine plan. It was his plan. Thank God, it was his plan for me.