Easter Sunday – April 13, 1952

Pictures are of Christ Lutheran Church, Bexley, Ohio, our gracious sponsors.

Mom, Dad, my older brother, and I arrived at Union Station in Columbus, Ohio at 5 :00am, after an all-night train ride from Grand Central Station, New York.

Why Columbus? In those days immigrants needed sponsors that promised jobs for the adults and a place for the family to live. Our sponsor was Christ Lutheran Church, of Bexley, Ohio (a city within Columbus’s city limits).

Ma and Pa Peters, a retired couple, opened their home to us. After arriving, we ate a huge American breakfast of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and toast.

That morning we attended Easter Sunday services at Christ Lutheran. We stood at the front of the church, were introduced, and were welcomed by the church members who had arranged for employment and housing.

Without a sponsor, we could have not come to America.

Thinking back for the three previous months, our “baths” consisted of washing with a rag and a bowl of cold water. Fortunately, before attending church, we took turns bathing in warm water. We had lived in our clothes, without laundering, for the entire 12 days aboard ship.

Thankfully, in our two suitcases, was a second set of clothes for each of us. If we stank, the kind Christians welcomed us anyway. I’m sure Mom and Dad were concerned about the cleanliness issues. I didn’t care. I had eaten a good breakfast!

Thank you Christ Lutheran. Happy Easter to all. He Is Risen.

Not a violin smuggler!

After 12 days crossing the angry north Atlantic, we arrived at Ellis Island on April 12, 1952.

Excerpt from my memoir:

“I remember all one thousand darkly dressed, orderly refugees waiting in lines at customs. We had our two suitcases and Dad’s violin, which he had kept with him on the ship.

The customs agent questioned Dad at length about his violin. Maybe he wanted to confirm that it was really Dad’s. Finally the agent asked Dad to play the violin. Rather than being nervous, Dad relished this opportunity to play in front of such a large audience of scraggly-looking refugees. He enjoyed playing and soaked up the moment. All activity, including talking, stopped in the big hall while he played. When he finished, everyone applauded.”

Legal Aliens

It was April 12, 1952: seventy years ago. I saw Lady Liberty from our ship.

We were processed at Ellis Island. Mom, Dad, my brother, and I received our LEGAL ALIEN CARDS. I still have the card. We left behind, hunger, oppression—and began a new life of freedom, rule of law, right to own property, freedom of religion, freedom from fear, and being rewarded for work. All we had to do to live the American Dream was to work hard.

Before being permitted to immigrate, our family was vetted for four years. Mom and Dad had to prove they were not Nazis or communists. They also had to pass a criminal background check. Nazis, like cockroaches scurrying in the light, were trying to hide all over the world. The USSR was already working to destroy the USA and was sending spies. Even my 11-year-old brother was “interrogated” several times. The “interrogators” were matronly ladies, who questioned my brother privately, behind closed doors. What better way to find out what Mom and Dad really thought and had done in the past than to ask a child? We always thought vetting was reasonable and wise.

I look with incredulity at our current southern border. Millions of people from 160 countries are illegally crossing. I suspect that the great majority are coming for the same reasons as my family. They think: “How illegal can it be to cross the border if the federal government gives me a cell phone, and buses or flies me to somewhere in the USA?” Before being processed, many migrants throw away identification documents they had with them. No criminal background checks are done. How many are cartel members, MS-13, gang members, common criminals, murderers, pedophiles, rapists, or terrorists sent by our enemies? The answer: We don’t know. Those who fit those descriptions will prey on American Citizens.

Nazis (National Socialist German Workers Party) killed Jews, Roma, homosexuals, and the handicapped. Twelve million non-Germans were sent to slave labor camps where many perished. The USSR (Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) toll of innocents killed is estimated to range from 40 to 60 million. That is more than the Nazis killed. The communist killing methods of choice were a bullet in the back of the head or to starve in the Gulags. Like countless others, my dear cousin was sent to a slave labor camp where she nearly died.

Cartel and MS-13 members kill with bullets, with the occasional added the twist of dismembering bodies. I see no moral difference between Nazis, communists, cartel members, MS-13, and terrorists. The only difference is the technology used to kill.

It made sense on April 12, 1952, to protect the American people by only allowing immigrants who would be a positive addition to America, to come. It still makes sense.

Crossing the North Atlantic

Cooks aboard the USS General Ballou during the time they were feeding US Soldiers traveling home after the war.

Seventy years ago, today, Mom, Dad, my brother, and I were sailing across the angry North Atlantic to the promised land. It was the fourth day since embarkation. I was within several months of my 9th birthday. An excerpt from my memoir follows:

“Once the seasickness subsided, we regained our appetites. For the first time in my memory, we had all we wanted to eat. The mess hall was super clean and was brightly lit. Food was served cafeteria-style.

After taking an aluminum tray from one of the tray stacks, we would slide them along three stainless pipes as the American merchant marine sailors plopped food onto the tray. We had never seen so much food! It was delicious!

We ate standing up and, when finished, dropped off our trays. We were not permitted to take food with us to the living quarters. Of course, I would get hungry between meals. In my case I was still feeding the intestinal parasites (worms) I had lived with for years. The worms took their share of nutrition and calories from my food. I was hungry all the time.

On the ship, I wore a dark pair of pants similar to sweatpants, which had elastic at the bottom of the pant legs. I took extra rolls, opened my elastic waistband, and dropped them into my pants. Gravity worked so that the rolls ended up at the bottom of my pant legs, safely held in place by the elastic. I put so many rolls down my pant legs that the bottom of my pants bulged out and I had to walk with my feet apart. Talk about bell-bottom trousers!

The sailors working in the mess hall noticed, smiled, and let me go my way. God bless Americans!”

A Tale of Christmas Past

The two-hour notice is unexpected. The Mom, her infant and five-year-old depart their ancestral home in the Carpathian Mountains never to return. A baby carriage, a little Cream of Wheat, diapers, and the clothes on their backs are their only belongings. The approaching enemy is on the move.

They board the cattle-car, wounded soldiers and straw-covered floors. The train stops. Track destroyed. Locomotive whistles the warning. “Run. Run!” A 1000 hp engine roars, machine guns bark, a ditch in the wheat field their only cover. They, their internal and external parasites, are now one.

Struggling to survive and little food take their toll. Babies stop crying.

The refugee camps are gray and crowded. Eyes are sunken. Ribs protrude. Disease spreads. Medicines, non-existent. Surgeries without anesthesia.

Journey’s end is a small room in a bombed-to-hell city. No running water, sewers inoperative. Sirens scream “Air Raid!” Basement or bomb shelter? Think quick! Calculate time and distance. The low droning of approaching motors. Distant explosions are now not distant. Hell is here–then goes away. The art of killing is persistent, the will to live more so.

Christmas Eve is quiet. Mom lights a candle and places an evergreen twig into a tin can. They sing Silent Night. Supper is lentil soup; dessert is one apple, carefully peeled, divided and savored.

They cuddle on a mat and sleep.

The cruel Socialist conqueror arrives. Humiliation, unthinkable cruelty, and political indoctrination follow. The Mom has a Patrick Henry moment “Give me Liberty or Give me Death. She and her kids make a midnight-escape across patrolled no-man’s land to freedom.Looking back on that Christmas Eve, all was well. We were together. We were alive.

–Gus Maroscher, Marion, IL

The above is my brother’s Christmas memory. You can read more about how we survive hell on earth, and come to America to live the American Dream in my memoir, available for purchase here.

Hear Gerhard share his story

Before you buy my memoir, you can watch a few short videos of my story, a story of war, deprivation, courage, perseverance and triumph!

In these videos I invite you to join me by my fireplace while I talk a bit about my history – a few excerpts from my book, in my own voice.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

My book is available for purchase here, or on Amazon.com.

Fish flushing is dangerous!

Even after the war was over, danger would come in sudden and unexpected ways. The excerpt from my memoir is from the time Mom, my brother, and I were living communist East Germany after WWII. 

“One of the places we lived was a multistory apartment building. Fellow tenants included a Russian army officer and his wife. Like almost all Russians, they had never seen running water and flush toilets. To them, a porcelain sink and a porcelain toilet looked the same except for the difference in height.

“Food was scarce for everyone, including the Russians. One day the officer purchased a small fish at a local market in Weimar. There was a little time till lunch, so his wife decided to keep it in one of the flush toilets the residents shared. Mom came to the communal bathroom with us and saw a dead fish floating in the toilet bowl. It never dawned on her that she was looking at someone’s lunch, so she flushed it. Shortly thereafter the officer came in to retrieve his fish and realized Mom had flushed it. He pulled out his pistol and put it to her head and demanded an explanation. My brother remembers those tense moments as Mom tried, in her broken Russian, to explain why she had flushed the fish.”

The book is available on Amazon: https://amzn.to/31H6cSk A story of war, deprivation, courage, perseverance, and triumph.

Letters from 1946

Mom saved every letter Dad wrote her during their long separation during and after WWII. The letters give a powerful and intimate view of the deepest feelings of a young married couple whose life has been torn apart by war.

Here are a few short excerpts from two letters and a postcard written by Dad to Mom.

Excerpts from a Letter—May 14, 1946
My sweetie!
Wow! What a joy! I received three letters at once from you today. I got weak in the knees… 

Excerpts from a Letter—May 22, 1946
I can endure everything, but worrying about you gives me many sad and bitter hours. Not to be able to help you . . . But God willing, this separation will also end. Just so you and our boys stay healthy… everything else we will be able to manage… my soul is screaming—why must this happiness bypass us? Is our cup still too full? Have we not drunk from it enough already, and always to the last bitter drop! As there is a God on this earth, this suffering must end and we be together again.

Excerpts from a Postcard—May 31, 1946
“Everything seems so gray, always alone! Well, you can imagine my diet, considering my culinary skills… 

Excerpts from a Letter—June 23, 1946
…Tomorrow it will be seven years since we were married! And we live off the beautiful hours of being together; we live off the memory how much longer?…Oh, how many loving words I want to write to you, but on paper they are cold words. May God grant the time of our reunion, and then in my arms you can forget all this misery. And then I can take care of you and our boys. 

Read more in the book – get your copy on this website or on Amazon: https://amzn.to/32CJfQs

The Ballou: yet another connection, and a different view

This photo was kindly submitted by Leo Wagner, who was on the voyage with his wife Ann and daughter Heidi.

Two days ago I was contacted by Heidi Wagner, a fellow passenger who crossed the Atlantic on the same ship with me and my family!

It was a joy to talk to her. We shared our respective histories, immigrant experiences, and love for our adopted country. She is doing research for her 92 year old father in hopes of locating the family of a dear friend of his with whom he had lost contact after arriving in the USA in 1952.

All immigrant refugee families on the ship received a post card with the picture of the USS General Ballou (also referred to as MS General Ballou) on it. I remember our postcard, unfortunately in the ensuing 65 years it was lost. Heidi just sent me a picture of the postcard her dad still had.

Heidi and her father are both looking forward to reading Why Can’t Somebody Just Die Around Here? Writing the book is a gift that keeps on giving!

POW Connections

Gustav, Gerhard’s father in his early 20s.

I met an 81-year-old Saxon lady (possibly a relative) at a recent breakfast, and she has a story similar to mine.

She obviously remembers her homeland quite well. Her father, being Saxon, was forced into the Waffen-SS. He fought in the war and became a POW, as did my father.

Gustav, a few years later and about two years after being released from POW camp.

After her father was released and returned home our stories diverge. Having perpetrated the crime of being Saxon, he was arrested by the communists and schlepped off to Siberia as a slave-laborer. He died there at the age of 37. The lack of food, clothing, adequate shelter, and extreme cold was difficult for the healthy to survive. For those in poor health, such as former POWs, it meant certain death.

Gerhard’s father’s certificate of release from the Prisoner of War camp.

When my father was released from Russian captivity (Focșani, Romania POW camp) he returned home in extremely poor health. In the early years of WWII, before Dad went to the front to fight the Russians, he surreptitiously went against the regime to help his Jewish friend Mr. Massler. His friend, now the communist police commissioner of Bistrita, Romania (Bistritz in German) protected him from arrest. He returned kindness with kindness. My dad survived.

To add to the poignancy of the Saxon lady’s story about her father was that she once met a former Transylvanian Saxon slave laborer who had survived. In hopes of gaining some knowledge about her father’s death she asked him what they did with the bodies of those who died. He responded, “We stripped them of their clothes and dug a shallow grave wherever they had collapsed and died.” As she told me this she began to cry.