Awaiting The Dawn

My Life in a Nazi Concentration Camp

Vladimir Husaruk

• Éditeur: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Année: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781638608820
• Sujet: History
• Sous-sujet: Holocaust History

In addition to the atrocities committed by the gestapo against the Jews, thousands of Christians were also arrested and enslaved in German work camps. In 1944, while on a train from Cracow, Poland, to Vienna, Austria, Rev. Vladimir Husaruk was arrested for being a "religious agitator." He was carrying a suitcase with fifty-two New Testaments to distribute to Slavic Christians who had been arrested and enslaved by the German gestapo. He spent the remainder of WWII in two prisons, including Montelupich, known for its tortures and executions, and two Nazi concentration camps, Gross-Rosen and Hersbruck, before being released by American soldiers in April 1945. His story of incredible faith and resilience in the face of death, starvation, and inhumane treatment culminates in a three-hundred-mile bicycle ride through Germany to be reunited once again with his family.

Chapter 1

My Story

Ill-fitting clothes hung on my thin frame as I bade farewell to my comrades. Tears rolled down my cheeks as four men waved in return, handkerchiefs fluttering, reminding me of the white flags of German surrender—the symbol of my freedom.

“Goodbye, friends!” I called, pedaling away on my bicycle. It was May 7, 1945. With a heavy sigh, I disappeared from their view and began my journey home. Home. It was the place I had dreamed of during the months away from my family. It was the place I had, at times, believed I would never see again.

As I turned the bicycle in the direction of Nuremberg, my mind replayed the long months within the walls of the prisons and concentration camps with memories that even freedom didn’t ease from my soul. I had experienced the loss of friends, the loss of dignity, and the realization that nothing brought people closer than living together in mutual misfortune and sorrow.

I had grown close to those who shared my pain. They had become my closest friends. But now as I rode past the blooming spring flowers, I prayed in my heart that suffering and pain would be a thing of the past. This hope fueled the momentum of my rickety bicycle. My striped pants and oversize shirt told my story to those I met along the way to where I had come from. But those garments could not hint at all what I had experienced. I wondered if what I carried in my heart could ever be expressed in mere words.

I didn’t travel alone on my journey. Passing within kilometers of the concentration camp in Hersbruck, I passed thousands of German refugees who clogged the roadways. They journeyed with meager belongings embraced in their arms like a priceless treasure. The lucky ones toted children. Some walked. Others—like me—rode on bicycles. Many more rode or pulled carts piled with sacks and suitcases. The journey was long, and I spotted groups resting on the green grass along the roadside or under trees. They slept in roadhouses and granaries or any place that offered a roof over their heads overnight. All dreamed of home.

Toward dusk, I would stop at a German village, looking for a place to spend the night. Each day, I rode. Each night, I tried to find some place to lie my head and people to share a meal with during the dark hours.

Some made me feel welcome and showed me hospitality. Others, hearing my foreign accent and seeing my striped clothing, treated me with hatred and suspicion.

The weather was beautiful and warm. I had passed Bavaria and entered Thuringia. There, nature’s captivating beauty caused me to stop and marvel at the sight. I had never seen anything quite like it anywhere before.

“Where are you heading?” the Germans frequently asked when they saw me on the road. They were always greatly surprised when I answered, “Hanover.”

“So far on a bicycle?”

At times, I met large and small groups of foreigners on the road. They had been brought by the Germans into Germany for forced labor. They had deserted their overseers and were now enjoying their freedom by strolling along roads and resting from hard labor. Many of them were already stationed in special camps in preparation for their departure to their native lands.

On one occasion, a group of these foreigners stopped me on the road.

“Give us your bicycle!” one man shouted in my face.

“Beat the fellow!” others shouted in Russian.

“Wait, comrades! Don’t you see who I am?” I exclaimed in Russian.

My would-be assailants stopped instantly; their mouths opened wide in astonishment. They had not expected to hear Russian.

“Hey, you, he is one of our own, a Russian,” said one of the parties.

“I am not a German. I have just been freed from a concentration camp. Where are you going, comrades?”

“We are on our way to a camp. We have worked long enough for the Germans, and it is time for us to return home.”

I shook hands with them and then told them I must be on my way.

“Excuse us, comrade,” said one of the men guiltily. “Since we thought you were a German, we were going to take your bicycle.”

We parted. Later I encountered similar incidents on the road. Each time, God gave me a way of escape.

My route led me through fields, forests, mountains, and valleys. Although the roads were well-paved, I had to make frequent stops to repair my bicycle. Despite the setbacks, I averaged about a hundred kilometers a day. I had passed Hesse and now entered the province of Hanover, where my family resided.

On my sixth day on the road, I had only one hundred kilometers left to my destination. I knew it was Saturday, and thoughts of my family urged me to pedal faster. Perhaps I would see them that evening. My wife…my children…was it possible?

The dim and fantastic dream of seeing them again had sustained me for nearly a year. Now it became an immediate and possible reality. Yet I wondered if they were well. I prayed they still lived. My gut ached with this prayer. My heart pounded in anticipation, and I pushed the pedals with greater speed. Faster, faster, onward, onward!

The bicycle broke again and again. My supply of glue was practically gone. I asked passersby for directions over and over to make sure I did not miss the place.

“Is it far to Holzminden?”

“Two hours ride,” came the answer.

The sky darkened, and anxious thoughts descended with it. Traffic was forbidden on the roads after nine o’clock. As the minutes ticked closer, only ten kilometers remained. So close…

In the small town of Hoxter, the bicycle broke down again. Now completely out of glue to fix it, I frantically knocked on doors. To my consternation, people refused to provide the glue I needed. Did they not realize how close I was? Did they not care?

I met a Ukrainian man sympathetic to my plea, and he allowed me to leave my bicycle at his house. I had one more shot at making it that day. No broken bicycle would slow me down.

I started to run. My personal race against the curfew hour. My race home.

“Forward. Forward!” I urged my legs. “Soon I shall see my loved ones!”

Perspiration covered my body, and blisters stung my feet. The pain mattered little compared to the promise. Road signs now declared I was less than two kilometers away.

On the still night air, I heard an unseen clock slowly strike nine times. In front of me, I saw the town in which my family now li...