Girda Patterson

East German fugitive post W.W.II.

Many Americans today know little of hardship and suffering; however, there are a few who have known much difficulty. The oral history of Girda Patterson opens your eyes, if only for a moment, as to how fortunate citizens of this country are. Mrs. Patterson, who was born February 5, 1935, is a fugitive from East Germany. She fled during the Russian Occupation after W.W.II. A spunky, sixty-eight year old, her speech is cloaked with a thick German accent and a hint of German phraseology. For a woman who completed few grades in school, she speaks English very well. After immigrating, a neighbor helped to teach her by naming kitchen items in English. She would spend hours in the kitchen in later years. Today, she cooks meals daily for her daughter as well as her grandchildren with whom she lives. A rich cultural experience, an experience filled with traumatic days and long nights is hers, and one we all can learn from.

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I grow up by myself. My mother had four other children. Three girls and one brother, we were all five. I was raised by my grandmother because where my mom lived there was a river. There was a lot of rats there; and my mom was afraid they would come and bite or nibble on the toes. So my grandmother lived far in the city, and there I was raised ‘til I was ten years old.

Heilsberg, (Germany) [was] hilly [and] very cold. In the winter, the temperature goin’ down to twenty-five below. We have snow probably, the end of October, and it does not quit ‘til February. We had a lot of woods [and] forest, deep woods.

I was the oldest. Later on my mom moved somewhere else. My mom probably preferred that I stayed with my grandma [or] whatever, and my dad was in the war (WWII.). She was alone so that’s probably, why I think I never asked why.

He (dad) was one of the Red Cross. So, when people got wounded I hated it. He had a dark uniform on like the SS. He had a stripe around his arm with the Red Cross on it. He had the Red Cross dog. So that’s what he was. My mom came always and visited on the weekends. We were all together, but we were not together.

I really don’t know too much about my dad, like I said, he was a lot of times [gone]. I even cannot tell you what my dad looked like. I know from the picture that’s about it. I don’t think my brothers and sisters know either ‘cause he was never home. He had to go in the army and that was it. He died in the army. My mom couldn’t know that he die. She called the Red Cross, wrote to the Red Cross, all kinds of stuff. All that they said, they couldn’t find the whole battalion. [Like] somebody just open the ground and swallowed. So, I imagine when the Russian came over, they (German soilders) dig their own graves. Like they did a lot of them, have them bend over, got the shot in the back. That’s what I figure out now; and mom say that’s probably what happen. They couldn’t find nobody, none. That is sad, ‘cause, I wonder sometimes how many people are buried.

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[At] Christmas time there was one package, maybe two or three; and grandma knitted like socks or mittens or shawls or sweaters. I had always one doll that disappeared before Christmas. Then, Christmas time she came back with new clothes on and a new hair style or somethin’ like that.

In my school I went four years. Like the same over here, we didn’t do history there. [The] main thing was reading, writing, and multiplication.

We were all Roman Catholic. We didn’t even know, where we lived, that there was a Holocaust. People disappeared, yeah; [but] we didn’t know where. We heard (about the Holocaust) in ‘46. We didn’t know nothin’ about it. It was all hush-hush. I know all kinds of people, ya know; for me it doesn’t make no difference if they are Jews, or black, or white, or green, or yellow. That doesn’t matter. [I was taught that] everybody’s equal. I didn’t know when I was a kid, [not] ‘til `50 or so, that [there are] two different kind of colors. You saw someone, and that was it. You didn’t ask what kind of religion they were, we didn’t care.

My mamma never talked about racism. We didn’t know. [We found out] that they had a Holocaust about `46.

[During the war we would] hear the bomb come. The bomb[s] comes and our town never got bombed. I would say three hundred or four hundred miles [away], and we saw that they bombed ‘cause we saw the lights. After the war, we were not fortunate.

In 1945, in January, every where else in Germany they were still fighting. Then came the Russians in our town. They came rushin’ in and there was a lot of killin’ and raping and burnin’ houses down by the Russians. Not just our town, everywhere else [too]. They burn the houses from the bottom up. They don’t care if there were people in them or not. There was one what you call, a white Russian. I don’t know what that means today. He spoke perfect German. He ask[ed] mom if he could help, ya know, like with cleanin’ and cookin’ and stuff. We was a little protected from them, (from the other

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Russians) but he couldn’t do much. We would have to leave in the middle of the night. The Russians came in. They couldn’t lock the doors. Doors had to be open. Us kids slept four or five in a double bed with clothes on in time to run, ya know. A big shot from the Russian army, he has the rules. [He] tells you

“Yes, you can do.”

In May of ‘45, maybe June, the Russians moved out and went to Poland. Then it was not much better, but you know we can live. Had something to eat. Go [in] the basement [and we had to] step over dead people to go and get the food. But it was a little bit better until October or November. My mom lost one child. Erica died when she was four years old, from hunger, [and] typhoid.

Then [people from] Poland came out and talk to my mother, and told her she has to sign her [house] over to them. She can stay in the house, or she has forty-eight hours to move out. My mom said, “No,” and we had to move.

We had to move in December, in the ice cold, December the fifth. [They] gave us only so much time. [We were to] take nothing with us. My grandmother was with us. [We] met the train...the train [they] put animals in, ya know, like a boxcar. You couldn’t take nothin’ with you except a little back pack. No papers, no clothes, just what you had on and a back pack.

When they had to change train stations, they kept you going. You never knew where you were. My grandmother died (pause) on my lap. She, I think, she froze to death. They send us to a train station, it came the end of the road. There was no more railroad tracks. It stopped. We have jewelry in the socks, but they took everything from us, everything. So, came the train with soldiers, they from W.W.II. They could take [only some] woman and children. She got me and the kids, and I stood with the other ones and I didn’t want to go. That’s when I saw my grandma was dead. They brought us to Frankfurt, but we had to go to a cow town.

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[It was] different from over here. Houses together and they send us to a farm. [We] went to the farm and worked in the field and milked cows. [Mom] had to do something to support the kids. The farmer [paid us] with potatoes, and meat, and stuff like that. There was no money exchange at that time, at all, ‘cause everything was-- how you say-- upside down, everything.

I had to go to school. I didn’t like that. Not the school, I hated the people. It was the rich farmer boys. They had the good grades. They brought eggs and ham and all that kind of stuff to the teacher, and we didn’t have nothin’ to give. So, they naturally got good grades [because of] bribes. I know a couple times that I threw the big fit, really big fit. [When] I had to leave in the fourth grade [during the war;] so they put me in the first grade, and then [I] made it to the second, then to the third grade. I said I cannot make it, and she give me all bad grades. I got so mad I throw the grade card in front of her in the fire. Throw it right in the fire.

I went and work on a farm when I was fourteen years old, full time milking cows. The Russians they were-- how you say-- we call it Communist. The Communist they forbid you to go to West Germany. We had a farm house, and we put wood and coal in a stove. It stood in the middle of the room. I was not the Communist; but a girl on the farm was Communist. We had a big fight over a boy fifteen years old. I liked him, too. Boy and girl, it was not then like it is right now, kissin’ and huggin’, it was just friendship. We played for fourteen, fifteen years in the straw, and never thought about it; but [he] was mine and I wanted mine. I had a big, big temper. We had a fight, and I poured boiling water on her; and then I had to run. She was a big Communist, and I was not. I hurted her bad. My mom had saved up three hundred marks, I’ll never forget that. She had met the mayor of the town, she made friends with him over the years and his wife and child. So, I went to him first, and told him what I did and he said,

“You bet you get your butt out of here! Right now!”

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He told me where to go, and I went and got the money; and I went and got a pair of clothes, and went to the train station and went to West Berlin. By myself; I was but eighteen years old. They had not the [cold] war on, but they [still] had trains comin’ from East goin’ to West Germany and then goin’ back to East. The [mayor] he told me,

“That’s the last train station in East Germany, and there is no stop in West go out. You know where to go. You know the East Germany police, and you know the West Germany police, talk to no body. Go to the police tell them what you did.”

That’s what I did. I didn’t talk to nobody. In Berlin, there where I came out, I went to the police station; and then, you know, you have always people --how you say-- I don’t know how to say, you know they protect you so they have to give fake name. They sent me to a convent. So nobody would come and get me. Someone from East Germany could get me anytime. They told me, they said,

“You know what? You believe me, after now, you can get Siberia or twenty years in jail.”

I can get Siberia, that they send me to Siberia for hurting the Communist party or twenty years in jail. So I was afraid of that. I think I was twenty, (pause) fourteen days, I was in West Germany. I was fourteen days in the convent. I had to go to interviews, to the police station. They ask questions and stuff like that. They always had one or two nuns. Protect, yeah. A nun wrote to my mom. I couldn’t write. The mayor told me in East Germany not to write to let somebody else do it.

Then, they flew me over to to West Germany, over the border. Berlin was still surrounded by East Germany. It was not me alone a fugitive, there were hundreds and thousands of them. They had a whole group at the airport. Then, they flew you out. But the flight over there didn’t do no good. We were shot at. The East Germans shot at us. But they never got us. But some people they didn’t make it. Oh, yeah! Ya know, not all

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of them; but maybe one or two they didn’t make it. We landed in West Germany, and they had us assigned to a good little girls’ home, what I call it.

I was in a home for, like in West Germany. They assign me to a home for the good daughters. They paid you know, and [I] learn house work and sewing. They take two best girls by the age of --I don’t know-- fourteen no, fifteen-sixteen. I believe one to East Germany, and they took me. Then, later on they took another one. [Girls with] rich parents or the parents pay for them to go on over there [West Germany]. They was Catholic see; it was you were a Catholic, then you got there. I was worried about my mom, I never heard. One day I get a letter, and she was in West Germany in East Berlin. They assigned me [to the Catholic girls home]. After a year I was there they assigned me to a house, you know cleanin’ house of a doctor. I didn’t like it either because there were too many kids there. So I went off on my own. I found myself a job in the restaurant, and wash dishes and stuff like that. [I was] 17 or 18 then. Ya know, cause I found nothin’ better then that. I worked and worked and changed restaurants. I moved from Warsaw to Munich. (Where mother was.)

My mom, in Berlin, she wrote a letter to the Red Cross. That she had to leave East Germany because they found out that I left, and she didn’t say nothin’. Then, they found out that someone snitched on her, but she feared West Germany. So, somebody snitched to the Communist there. There again, the mayor helped her to go out with my brother, and she was like in a camp, too. She wrote another letter where she said,

“Now, I have the mayor over here, too.”

‘Cause somebody snitched, and the mayor had to leave farm, and everything because he helped me and helped my mom. So, he had to leave; him and his family had to leave. So you know, it was not good. I said,

“At least mom made it. The kids, my sisters, made it.” [Out of Berlin]

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Then I met Eddie, my ex-husband. I met him in `63. It was Christmas eve. My mom and I had a spoof (an arguement) and I didn’t go over. We closed the restaurant. So, I had made friends with some girls who said,

“Lets go over there to the bar [and] visit some three guys comin’ over.”

I had a glass of wine sittin’ there, and he pulled his little pennies together to get him glass beer. I felt sorry for him, so I bought him a glass beer. So, I met my ex-husband. I had my son in `64 before I got married. I didn’t want to marry him. [I married him] because he pressured me. His time was over in Germany, his tour, ya know; and knowin’ he’d leave. See now, that was not the right way. [There] was conflict [between] East Germany and West Germany, at this time. I remember how the Russian came, ya know; and what they did to the womans and to the children. I hear what they did, and I was scared to death. So he told me,

“You gonna have to go.”

And his tour is over and that was in `64. I thought about it. He said,

“You know, if you’re not married. I take the kid with me, then. William is my kid.”

I go, and I thought about it. Kids meant more, and if the Russian [were]defeat you never know.

So I put the papers in for for marriage. You have to put the papers in, and they have to be through, mine have to be through East Germany, and in West Germany, and through the Army. All kind of paper work. I came to the states in `66. [With my son] and with my daughter. Angie was just a little baby, eight months old. William was first.

We had to go on post in the hotel. [In] Germany, those trees with those vines grow all on ‘em in the summertime. When we came over...I got scared. My stupid ex-husband said,

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“Ya know what Girda, you got watch over here where you’re goin’ we got poison spiders, poison snakes, and wild Indians.”

I never stepped out of there (hotel) [for] a month. We lived in that hotel, [and] I never step one step out except with him. Was hot in that hotel. One hotel room with the kids and me. I was scared to death, and I’m still scared, not of the spiders, but the dog gone snakes. Now I know, too, there are no wild Indian. They had a heck of a time to play a joke on me. For me, it was not a joke. We stood over there about a month in that hotel. Then, Eddie find a house a little bit outside from the base. He moved us in there. I didn’t want to go because I was not used to that you know, holes in the walls, hot, and the refrigerator half works. I was not used to that. We finally got, a couple months later, we got housing, or what they call housing. We moved out.

I didn’t spoke much English. He spoke a little bit Germany, and I spoke a little bit English. But, I had a good neighbor and she was a black lady next door, outside from Brecknote (the fort Eddie was stationed at). [She was] a really nice black lady. Oh, she came, and she taught me. Ya know, that’s a fork, and that’s a spoon, and that’s a cup, and that’s coffee. We went to the commissar, were you get your food. I thank her so much I can’t tell you what her name was, but she helped me so much with things.

I watch TV and what I watched, I watched comics. A little bit here and a little bit there, you learn more. You understand, you learn [to] understand more than you can speak. A lot of times the American woman they didn’t like strangers, especially Germanys. I probably know why. You hear them talking about the Germany girls

“Better send ‘em home.”

All kind a stuff. I pretended I never understand, but lot of times I went home and cry. They were nasty. They where horrible...but like I say...you fall in love. You make your bed, and you sleep in it.

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[At] that time a tornado came. I didn’t know what it was. My neighbor again sent me over. Said,

“Go and get ‘em, don’t take nothin’ just take the kids and come over.”

So I went there. That was all in ‘66.

“Go under the table don’t move, don’t let the kids go.”

We went under the table. We had big table. She had two children, and I had two at that time. I never knew what a tornado was. Later on, I find out about a mile away from us it took the steeple down from the church and demolished a couple houses. We were lucky. It moved over houses, a lot ya know. He (the tornado) was like a jumping jack, jump over here and one here. My first tornado, I’m still afraid of ‘em now.

I got pregnant again, with a third child, Rosie. She was born ‘67. Eddie still was drill sergeant. Six weeks he had to be out of town to learn all the dooda bobers about being a drill sergeant. And ‘69 he got orders to Korea. Thirteen months to Korea.

Eddie found a house [to move to while he was in Korea] outside North Carolina. [While he was away], my mom passed away. I got a letter, two months later. She passed away of a heart attack. I found out month or two later, my brother side my sister-in-law, she wrote me a letter. There was some kind of meal strike or something, and my mom wrote me a letter. Then, she (sister-in-law) wrote me a letter and I got both them at the same time. I open my mom’s letter that she go to a festival. They go and kill a pig. She has a good time up there [with] Margot (other sister). Then, she asked how Angie and William do and the baby and how Eddie is doing. I open the other letter, and there’s bad news. Mom passed away. I was out of my mind. I couldn’t go to the funeral because she was already buried. Everything was over.

Then, he (Eddie) came home and he got (assigned to) Ft. Knox, Kentucky. We move again. [He] was [not] even nine months home, he got orders for Vietnam.

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Rosie, [my daughter] passed away when she was eleven years old. Oh, the neighbors kids had a bicycle. Rosie we didn’t want that she go and ride the bicycle, but sme how somewhere that day she got on it and the breaks give out. We lived in Joplin [at] that time. She came down the hill,and she hit a truck. It was nobody’s fault. Nobody’s fault. I think she really knew what would happen-- that she would be not too long on this earth. Angie was by her aunt in Joplin and William was with a friend. That was 1978, and she (Rosie) asked you know, she said something that I never gave a thought of. She asked if she can go outside and play with the next door neighbor girl and I say,

“Okay don’t go on the bicycle.”

“No mommy, I don’t”

We lived, you know, the street goes straight through, our buy or living room window. She give me a give me a hug, she always was a lovable. But she gave me a hug and she say,

“Momma thanks for everything. Today I had almost everything I want.”

It was ten minutes later she was dead, well not dead, but brain dead. So I was washing the clothes, no folding the clothes, and her dad was watching TV. You heard the doorbell ringin’ and he said,

“I’m goin’. Somebody here. I’m goin’.”

But he never said where he went. Now I went to the kitchen to get the clothes. I came back from the kitchen, went in the dining room. I thought he went next door, ‘cause we knew the people, and he was talking to the guy or whatever. Doorbell ring again. I went, and taxi driver came and he said,

“Are you Mrs. Patterson? Your husband say puts some shoes on and bring your purse and lock and turn everything off.”

I never, you know, you never think of it. So he drives me down the hill. There’s Rosie laying on the ground. So, they brought her in the ambulance. She was brain dead. She died the next day. She was two days in Freeman hospital

[In] ‘82 I got a divorce. [He left for] a woman, she was two years older than Angie. But we had already split stuff like that, there was already things that really hurt me.

Oh, later on the kids grew up. The kids got married. Angie she went to college over here. And then later on, I went back with my ex-husband a few years later; and we just lived like brother and sister in Asbury. We had a little cafe over here on Fourth Street in `93 and then he left again. She (Angie) helped in the cafe. I owned, I mean I cooked, there the Cafe was mine, was under my name. Then, I moved completely to Pittsburg with Angie ‘cause Angie wasn’t married, and close you know. William lives in Arma, he has a family. He had two girls. I moved in also and said,

“It’s gonna be a long stay with Angie.”

I loved Germany. I went back after twenty years. My brother give me, his kids, my nieces, his daughter, a Christmas present that I come over to Germany. I went back. I love it there, but I don’t live there no more.

[My brother] is still living there, absolutely. Its nice in Germany, nice to visit; but I’m so used to here. I don’t know, they are different, the people. You come on back, and you know the difference right away. I love the shop, and the food, and all that kind of thing. The summer you can go in the forest, you don’t have to watch where you step cause we (Germany) don’t have many snakes. You can go pick, find mushrooms, strawberries, blueberries, that you can find wild in Germany. I wouldn’t go back to live, visit is fine, but not to live. I’m glad that I’m here now.

--This interview was conducted winter of 2002 by Kimberly Huebner.