October-December, 1946
The address in Zurich that Zinsmann had provided turned out to be tucked away in a narrow side street. A sign hanging over the street displayed a picture of a pair of eyeglasses and proclaimed that the optician Klopfer practiced his profession inside. It was barely eight o’clock in the morning, and Colling hoped that he would find the place open as he tried the door. He was pleased to find it unlocked.
The interior of the establishment was not well lit, and the dark wood of its furnishings did little to alleviate the gloom. A rotund little man greeted Colling from behind a counter that filled the width of the shop. As Colling came closer, the proprietor saw that he was wearing an American uniform and repeated his greeting in English. Colling decided that speaking German would be more appropriate. He watched the little man’s eyes widen as he explained that a friend in the Kameradschaft had suggested that he locate “Rudolf,” who might be able to assist him. The man’s mouth dropped open when Colling turned the lapel of his Ike jacket to show the button with the black swastika in the center of a red circle.
“But you are American, yes?” asked the man.
“Nein, ich bin Volksdeutsche. I am born in the U.S.A., but my family answered the call and returned to the Fatherland in ’39. I have served in the Wehrmacht. This Ami uniform I have stolen only by the greatest of fortune. The Amis are after me, and I am seeking help with papers so that I may return to America. There is a greater chance that I might disappear there. If I am found out and arrested by the Amis, I will be shot as a traitor.”
The little man extended his hand to Colling and said, “I am Klopfer. I may be able to help.”
“I require four American passports, two for a man, that is me, only two different names. The two others for women, one young, the other older, perhaps 35 or 40 years of age. These last two will have no photos.”
Klopfer raised his eyebrows, “You have fräuleine with you?”
“Und kinder. Two little girls. I will need the certificates to accompany the passport of the younger woman.”
“That may be difficult. I am not sure what appearance such certificates might have.”
“You will have to discover this, and soon.”
The optician looked doubtful, but slowly nodded his head.
“I do not have their pictures, they will have to be added later. I have only one of myself. I wish the other to be with spectacles. As an optician, I would wager that you might provide me with a pair with…how is it said?..non-refractive lenses and take my photo wearing them. The one with the glasses must go on the passport in the name of Krazinsky. I have also prepared the names and other information to be used,” replied Colling, pushing across the counter the photograph he had had taken of himself three days earlier in Grabensheim by a photographer friend of Zinsmann’s, and the written instructions for the other passports.
“Of course, Kamerad. I have a pair of spectacles that will suit the bill,” said Klopfer, reaching under the counter and producing a leather case from which he extracted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He handed them to Colling. “Put them on.”
The glasses felt odd, but the lenses were as he had requested and did not impair his vision. Klopfer invited him into the rear of the shop, and after hastily stretching a sheet across some shelves, asked him to pose in front of it. Colling removed his uniform jacket before Klopfer snapped several pictures with a small camera, then said, “I will develop the film and have the passports by tomorrow afternoon.”
Klopfer paused as he rewound the camera, “May I know your real name?”
“It is best that you do not,” said Colling, adding what he hoped was the right tone of menace in his voice, “For reasons of security. You must also consider the names I have given you as confidential, and that you will destroy any extra photographs. I trust you will be as discreet as you have been about others of the Kameradschaft. We would not wish to lose your services.”
“Yes, yes. I understand completely. Everything will be with the utmost secrecy,” said Klopfer, his hands fluttering nervously. “You may come back and pick up everything tomorrow afternoon.”
“No. I would prefer that you deliver them in a public place. I will be waiting for you at the Café Aubergen tomorrow at three. I will be seated by the window. Cross the square to the Café and come inside. I will pass you as you are entering, and as I do, you will slip me a folded newspaper containing the passports.”
“Very well. But I am not used to such intrigue.”
“I have not been caught by the Amis for the reason that I am always cautious. I wish to keep it so. And I will keep these spectacles you have been so kind as to provide.”
“There is also the matter of payment,” said Klopfer cautiously.
“Just so,” replied Colling. “How much?”
“Eight hundred American dollars or the equivalent in francs,..Swiss francs…that is, or sterling.”
Colling pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Klopfer. “You will find three hundred there. Once I have examined the passports, I will drop the balance through the mail slot in your door before I leave Switzerland.”
Klopfer tore open the envelope and thumbed through the bills inside. He smiled and said, “You will be pleased, I am sure, sir. The blank passports were stolen from the American embassy in Rome only a few weeks ago. Very nice indeed. Completely authentic.”
“I will depend on it,” replied Colling, slipping the case with his new glasses into his inside pocket.
Colling arrived at the Café Aubergen at noon the following day. It was drizzling and chilly, and the few people who were on the streets were, for the most part, walking purposefully to wherever they were going in order to get out of the weather. Colling asked for a seat near the café’s window. He had brought a supply of magazines and newspapers that he half-pretended to read as he watched the square outside. He ordered a lunch of lamb stew and potatoes, and ate slowly so as to kill as much time as possible, and afterwards leisurely sipped at a cup of coffee. The café was not busy, and his occupying a table for an extended period of time seemed to go unnoticed, despite the fact that he was alone and in American uniform. Colling could see nothing that would suggest that the café or the square in front of it was under surveillance. There were no loitering pedestrians or parked automobiles with their front seats occupied. No one entering or leaving the café seemed to pay any attention to him.
At precisely three, Klopfer came walking across the square directly towards the Café Aubergen. As Klopfer entered, Colling rose from his table, moving so as to intercept Klopfer’s path between the café’s tables. Surprisingly, the exchange took place almost as if it had not happened. Colling headed back to his hotel without looking back.
The passports were well done. All the entry and exit stamps were as Colling had requested. The children’s certificates seemed to be plausible, even if they turned out to be not strictly accurate representations of what the State Department was using these days. He checked out of his hotel, but instead of heading directly to the train station, he digressed so that he could drop an envelope into the optical shop’s mail slot. By the following morning, he was in Karlsruhe, and that afternoon, the train deposited him at the Grabensheim Bahnhof, where he caught a ride in a Quartermaster deuce-and-a-half to Camp 146.
Instead of approaching Prinzman for permission for a furlough, he took the opportunity to speak directly with Captain Lewisohn the following day when he delivered one of Sergeant Kneckerson’s cooks to have a serious burn to his hand treated. As usual, the doctor looked harried. A young Army surgeon had recently been assigned to the Regimental Aid Station which helped to relieve some of the pressure that Lewisohn had been under as the sole physician for the regiment, but the inexperienced first lieutenant continued to want to confer with him on nearly every case.
Lewisohn was standing in the hallway, clutching a clipboard filled with a sheaf of forms, writing hurriedly, when Colling found him.
“Sir,” said Colling.
“Yes, Colling. What is it?”
“Sir, I was wondering if you would approve a furlough for me.”
The doctor looked up from his papers, “Colling, you know you’re the best medic I’ve got. I wish I had a dozen more like you. I really can’t spare you right now.”
“But sir, the two Polish doctors did fine while I was in Switzerland. They can hold down the fort for a few days.”
“Where do you want to go? Not back to the States, I hope.”
“No sir. I just want fifteen days to go to Paris. I was there a couple of months ago on TDY, and I met a girl….”
“I see,” said Lewisohn, smiling. “German girls aren’t good enough for you?”
“There’s a fraternization rule, sir. GI’s aren’t supposed to have anything to do with the locals.”
“Right. All the dripping dicks we see must be my imagination.”
“Well, sir, I didn’t say everybody went by the rule. But this girl is French, and there isn’t any rule about fraternizing with our allies.”
“I hope you don’t come back with a dose. Our guys coming back from leave in Paris seem to have some strain of the clap that must have been imported from their North African colonies.”
“No sir. This gal is from a good family. She works for the Army.”
“What’s her name?”
Colling had anticipated the question, “Suzette, sir. Suzette Dumarques. She’s very nice.”
“Okay, Colling. You talked me into it. But if I have to prescribe penicillin for you when you come back, so help me….”
“Thanks, sir. I’ll be leaving tomorrow or the next day. Can I have Sergeant Prinzman call you to confirm your authorization, Sir?”
“Sure. Have a good time,” said Lewisohn, his attention returning to his clipboard. Without looking up, he added, “By the way, by the time you get back from your furlough, you’ll most likely find yourself assigned to a medical dispensary under the 511th General Hospital in Munich. The Division is being deactivated. The regimental medical detachment is splitting off into the new unit.”
“What about A Company at the camp, Sir?”
“Word is, they go to AMGOT as a security detachment. Anyone with time left in the rest of the 40th is being transferred to a whole bunch of Quartermaster, AMGOT and other service units. Guys with short time are going home for discharge, or if they want to stay in, for reassignment in the States.”
“What outfit will be at the Grabensheim kaserne, Sir?”
“No one’s really sure, but it could be one of the new Constabulary outfits. You’ll find out when you get back from Paris. Right now, it looks like you’ll be working for me, since I’ll be CO of the new dispensary, and I sent in a personnel request list with your name on it to Division.”
As he drove back to the camp, Colling smiled, thinking about no longer having to answer to Major Vincent. By the time he returned, he guessed that the Major could be one of those riffed out of the Army. For once, the phrase, “For the good of the service,” would be especially applicable to an officer’s separation from active duty.
Colling repeated his story about his reasons for wanting a furlough to go to Paris to First Sergeant Prinzman, who seemed annoyed that Colling had chosen to ask for Captain Lewisohn’s approval before his own, but he told Colling he would have the furlough orders and travel authorizations typed out and sent to Lewisohn for his signature. Prinzman also mentioned that he would have to pay for his train ticket. American military personnel no longer were able to ride the Reichsbahn for free.
Sergeant Prinzman had already been informed about the deactivation of the 61st Division, and he confirmed for Colling’s benefit that A Company was being placed under Major Brumerson’s command, renamed and numbered as the 1067th Security Detachment. Lieutenant Wallerman would continue as the detachment’s CO, but their authorized strength had been dropped to only seventy-five men. Prinzman would remain in his role as first sergeant. He grinned when he told Colling that Colling would have the “misfortune” to miss the ceremony Colonel Brazenholm had scheduled to take place at the Grabensheim kaserne the following Saturday, at which the 40th Infantry would officially stand down.
Colling had the approved furlough in his hands two days later. He was already packed. The familiar old suitcase that had served him well in Poland now held Cousin Jerry’s clothes, long since altered to fit Colling by a woman DP who was a seamstress. It also was filled with items that Colling had carefully selected from the contents of Cousin Jerry’s trunk. Colling made one last check to make sure the Luger and extra ammunition, cash and the forged passports he had brought back from Zurich were still snug in their concealed receptacle. Almost as an afterthought, he took four vials of penicillin and a box of the new oral tablets and added them to the secret compartment. A canvas zipper bag was required to accommodate some of Cousin Jerry’s clothing that would not fit in the suitcase, and Colling stuffed the second bag inside the B-4 he would use to store his uniform once he reached Munich. He placed two envelopes in the inner pocket of his Eisenhower jacket.
In the Munich Bahnhof, Colling found the men’s restroom and changed into Cousin Jerry’s clothes. He had let his hair grow, and he mussed it into a semi-unkempt state, then put on the pair of glasses Klopfer had given him. He looked at himself in the mirror over one of the sinks, and silently hoped that his appearance would match the photo in his new forged passport. He left his own wallet and personal effects in the B-4 bag before checking it at the baggage hold desk. He boarded the train wearing Cousin Jerry’s best suit, his new identity papers and the envelopes transferred to it from his uniform jacket. Wearing the glasses was a distraction at first, but by the time he was seated in his train compartment, he had become passably used to their presence.
Colling followed the same route as had been used the previous summer, from Munich to Prague, and then on to Warsaw. In April, his American officer’s uniform had assured swift examination of his papers. This time, dressed in Cousin Jerry’s civilian clothes, customs and police officials asked for his identification at every turn. When he produced the American passport in Jerzy Krazinsky’s name, however, the attitude of most of them became deferential. No one questioned its authenticity, and Colling gratefully acknowledged to himself that Herr Klopfer seemed to be a skilled practitioner of his dubious trade.
Colling did not wish to leave any more of a trail than was absolutely necessary, so he avoided checking into any hotel. He either slept in his seat on the train, or when it was necessary to lay over, stretched out on a bench in the railway station. This added to his unkempt appearance, something that was not altogether unwanted.
The crossing into Poland was significantly different from his previous experience. There were no Polish militiamen asking for documents. Instead, a trio of Russians went from compartment to compartment, and their review of the passengers’ papers was unhurried and thorough. Two of them were Red Army enlisted men, sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders. The senior officer, whose blue collar tabs and hat band marked him as NKVD, was brusque to the point of rudeness when he asked in accented Polish to see Colling’s identification. Colling answered in the same language, trying to affect a noticeable American accent. When Colling handed his passport to the officer, and the Russian saw the United States eagle on its green cover, he stared intently at Colling and spoke in English, “Mister Krazinsky. You speak Polish well for an American.”
The statement seemed to Colling to call for an answer, and he replied in English, “Yes, Comrade. I am Polish-American. From Milwaukee. That is in Wisconsin. There are many people of Polish descent there. Many immigrants.”
The NKVD man was carefully turning the pages of the passport. “You have other identification perhaps?”
“Yes, of course, Comrade,” answered Colling, taking out his wallet and showing the Russian first his Communist Party card, then pulling other cards from the recesses of the wallet and handing them over.
The NKVD officer looked up from the Party card and commented, “So you are one of our American Comrades. Welcome to Poland. Where are you going, and what is your business?”
“I am on my way to Warsaw. I go to seek out the headquarters of the Party. I have come to express the solidarity of the American Party with that of Poland’s. It is clear that there is a struggle between reactionary forces and the triumph of Socialism in Poland. I have come to lend some small help to that struggle,” replied Colling, trying to appear suitably naïve and use the correct cliches.
“You do not mind if we search your luggage?”
“Not at all,” said Colling, reaching to the overhead rack and pulling down his suitcase and the canvas bag and placing them on the seat.
With a wave of his hand and some words in Russian, the NKVD officer directed his two companions to conduct a search. They pawed through the clothes until they found the documents that were underneath them. They seemed pleased to have uncovered something, and one of them handed the stack of paper to the officer, a triumphant look.
“Mister Krazinsky, I am Major Bresnikov,” said the Russian as he leafed through the documents.
“I am pleased to meet you, Comrade Major,” said Colling.
Bresnikov gave special attention to some of the items he was examining, appearing to read them carefully, and Colling wondered how much a command of written English the officer really possessed.
At last the Russian gave an order to the two soldiers, and they began replacing the documents and clothing in the bags. He handed Colling his papers and said, “Again I welcome you to Poland, Comrade Krazinsky. Have a safe journey. One of my men will stay with you until Piotrkow. I will arrange for another man to take over there to see that you are escorted to Warsaw.”
All Colling could think of to say was, “Thank you, Comrade Major. I am honored.”
A few minutes later, a Polish customs official passed through, asked for Colling’s passport, and used a rubber stamp to mark his entry into Poland.
The Russian soldier that Bresnikov had assigned to Colling could not speak English, and seemed to know only a few words in Polish. After rudimentary attempts at conversation, Colling gave up and took out a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls that he had found among Cousin Jerry’s things, and read while his escort sat stoically, his PPSh sub-machine gun in his lap, staring fixedly out the window.
His guard was changed in Piotrkow, where another Red Army soldier took over from the first. Apparently Bresnikov had telephoned or wired ahead with the news of Jerzy Krazinsky’s arrival in Poland. The second soldier was even less talkative than the first, and Colling nodded off after only a few pages of Hemingway. He was awakened by the Russian soldier shaking him by the shoulder, and realized they were pulling into the makeshift Warsaw terminal.
They had not experienced the delays in travelling by train across Poland that they had in the spring, and Colling concluded that the Russians, or someone, must have repaired or replaced enough railway track so that they were not repeatedly forced to wait on sidings for other trains to pass. Even at that, the better part of a day had passed between Colling’s entry into Poland and his arrival in Warsaw.
Colling’s escort insisted on carrying his suitcase, leaving Colling with only the small canvas bag in his hand as they stepped down onto the platform. They were approached almost immediately by an NKVD officer, followed by a pair of Red Army enlisted men. The officer ordered one of his men to take Colling’s suitcase from his escort on the train, who re-boarded, apparently to return to Piotrkow.
“I am Captain Ensilnos, at your service, Comrade,” said the NKVD man in English.
“My pleasure, Comrade Captain,” replied Colling.
“I come to take you to Party headquarters.”
“I very much appreciate that, Comrade Captain.”
“Come, follow me, Comrade Krazinsky,” said the officer, motioning for Colling to follow him.
Captain Ensilnos had been provided by his superiors with a jeep that he drove wildly through Warsaw’s crowded streets, using the horn to clear a path through the traffic. Sitting beside the Russian in the jeep’s front seat, Colling held onto the windshield with his right hand while bracing himself with his left hand against the dashboard. The pair of Red Army enlisted men somehow managed to remain in their seats in the rear without being thrown out as the officer negotiated corners on what Colling would have sworn were two wheels.
They slid to a stop in front of a large building that Colling surmised had originally been the residence of a wealthy family. Colling was reminded of the headquarters of the Polish Red Cross from his previous visit. A large red banner embellished with the hammer and sickle hung across the front of the building. On a pole over the door flew the Polish national flag, from which the Polish eagle had been removed, leaving only two plain fields of red and white. There was no sign or other indication that the building was Communist Party headquarters.
Ensilnos led Colling up the steps, leaving the two soldiers to watch the luggage. Inside, the place was bustling with activity as people walked back and forth through the circular entrance hall. A young woman sat behind a desk, and Ensilnos strode over and told her that there was an American Comrade with an important message for Comrade Vojanski. She picked up the telephone and spoke to someone, and a few moments later a man emerged and asked Colling to accompany him. The Russian captain seated himself on the receptionist’s desk and said he would wait until Colling returned, a wink at Colling conveying his apparent intention to use the time to flirt with the pretty receptionist.
Comrade Vojanski was a tall thin man whose pale sunken face suggested to Colling that he was suffering from some chronic illness. As soon as the door to Vojanski’s office closed behind the man who had ushered Colling in, Vojanski extended his hand and said, “Welcome, Comrade. I am Melan Vojanski, Chief Deputy to the Party Secretary, and in charge of this office. I have been informed that you come to demonstrate your solidarity with your Polish Comrades.”
“Yes, Comrade Vojanski, I do. I am Jerzy…Jerry…Krazinsky, from Milwaukee, U.S.A. I have been sent by my Comrades from the United States…the Milwaukee Workers’ Committee to be precise, to show our tangible support for your struggle.” Colling took the envelopes he had been carrying in his inside coat pocket and handed them to Vojanski. Vojanski tore open the first envelope, which was addressed to the First Secretary, Communist Party of Poland, and extracted the letter which was inside. He handed it back to Colling, saying, “I regret that I do not read English, Comrade. You will have to translate.”
Vojanski smiled, and tore open the second, thicker envelope. He thumbed through the sheaf of American dollars, then said, “The Party thanks you, Comrade Krazinsky, and your Comrades in Milwaukee.”
“You are welcome, Comrade Chief Deputy. I will convey your thanks when I return to America.”
“And when will that be, Comrade Krazinsky?” asked Vojanski.
“I have some personal business first, Comrade, then I will return.”
“And what might your personal business be?”
“I wish to find some relatives of my mother from whom we have not heard since before the war began, Comrade.”
“Are they here in Warsaw?”
“No, Comrade Chief Deputy. They were heard from last in the south, in a village east of Krakow. I will have to travel there in search of them.”
“You will need the assistance of the Party to travel, Comrade. There are restrictions in place that limit unauthorized movement about the country.”
“Is it possible that that might be arranged, Comrade Chief Deputy?”
“Of course. It will also give you the opportunity to see something of Poland. I will provide a travel authorization by rail to Krakow, then the Party can furnish motor transport. It will make it much easier to move about between those small towns.” Vojanski used the telephone on his desk to speak to someone, then invited Colling to take a seat while they waited. He asked Colling about the situation in the United States, and Colling told him that the Party was under attack on all sides from J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI. Things were sure to become worse now that the Republicans had won so many Congressional seats in the recent elections. Colling explained that he had had to slip out of the country by taking a bus to New Orleans, then finding a tramp steamer that would take him to Europe. He spun a tale of having had to work his way across, washing dishes in the ship’s galley, until they arrived in Bordeaux. He described how he had made his way across France and Germany to Munich, where he took a train for Warsaw.
Colling was finishing his story when the man who had brought him to Vojanski’s office walked in and placed some papers in front of the Chief Deputy. Vojanski quickly read the documents, then signed them with a flourish. He handed them to Colling, who saw that they were, in effect, a safe conduct and travel authorization good anywhere in Poland. Colling folded them and put them in his inside jacket pocket. He thanked Vojanski profusely before saying goodbye.
Captain Ensilnos was still seated on the desk where Colling had left him, leaning across it and speaking to the young receptionist, who seemed to be giving the NKVD man her rapt attention. He looked up at Colling’s approach and abruptly terminated his conversation with the girl, saying, “At your service, Comrade.” Colling nodded and asked if a taxi could be found for him.
“It is my duty to see that you reach your hotel safely, Comrade. Do you have arrangements somewhere?” said Ensilnos.
“No, Comrade Captain. I have to find a place.”
“Not to worry, Comrade. All Americans stay at the Polonia.”
“Is it expensive, Comrade Captain? I’m on a budget…limited funds, you know,” said Colling, not sure that the Russian understood him.
The NKVD officer seemed surprised. “I thought all Americans had plenty of money,” he said.
“Unfortunately, I’m not one of them, Comrade Captain.”
“Not to worry, Comrade. I will ask the Polonia to give you a special price. Come this way.”
The ride to the Polonia was as frightening as the earlier one to Party headquarters. Ensilnos skidded the jeep to a stop in front of the hotel, and as he switched off the engine, he smiled over at Colling and asked, “I hear that every American soldier has a jeep. Is that true?”
“I do not believe so, Comrade. I have not been in the American army, but I do not believe so.” said Colling as he climbed out, giving thanks to God he was still alive.
Ensilnos ordered the soldiers to bring the luggage, then led Colling to the Polonia’s registration desk. The clerk was not someone Colling recognized from his earlier stay, and for that he was thankful. The man was clearly intimidated by the NKVD officer, and nervously turned the hotel register for Colling to sign. Ensilnos simply stated that Comrade Krazinsky was to have a “special price,” and the clerk readily agreed.
The NKVD Captain bid Colling farewell as a bellman took the luggage from the soldiers and led him to his room. The accommodations were even shabbier than Colling remembered. He partially unpacked, hanging his suits and jackets in the armoire, but leaving everything else in his suitcase and the canvas bag. He checked the chandelier and found a microphone, as he had expected. Taking the risk that his things would not be searched if he did not leave the hotel itself, Colling went to the lobby to exchange dollars for zlotys and have dinner. The cashier gave him colorful new banknotes which were different from the Russian occupation notes he was used to. Colling wanted to ask if the older currency was still accepted, but caught himself at the last moment, when he realized that that might betray that this was not his first visit to post-war Poland.
Night had fallen by the time he finished eating. Everything was as he had left it when he returned, and he guessed that there had been no search. He made a noisy show of brushing his teeth and preparing for bed. Once he had turned off the lights, he dressed silently and quietly slipped into the hallway and down the stairs to the cellar. He easily found his way to the street exit. There were no pedestrians on this side of the hotel, and a careful scan of the street did not suggest that there was any surveillance. He walked hurriedly and turned the corner into the closest side street. He stopped and waited to see if he were being followed, and when nothing happened, he went to find a way to return to the neighborhood near Potok where he would find Oblieska’s bicycle shop.
The horse-drawn cart that served as a taxi left him at the same street corner where he and Elizabeth had been dropped off months before. It seemed to Colling as if it had been an eternity. He stopped a passerby and a