The beginning

Museum guide Dominik shows me the road to Stalag VIIIB

Hello from the train to Mannheim!

I’m on my way to Paris from Warsaw today.

After quite an overwhelming itinerary, I’m spending the last few days of my trip in France.

Thankfully, I’m feeling restored after spending the day with this queen at the palace in Warsaw…

We went to a lovely restaurant called Shuk last night, where I met her partner.

We talked about lots of things including what it was like in the first few weeks of the Ukraine invasion, when all the stations in Poland were full 24/7 and Poles were taking Ukrainian people in.

About Ukrainian people in their workplaces and their stories of sheltering in stations and escaping through multiple countries.

About how so many European countries had been so willing to accept Ukrainian refugees, which is brilliant, but how doors to people escaping other countries had remained closed because the people from those countries are not white.

And about how ridiculous that is.

Lambinowice

So let’s get into it then.

I took the train from Zary (there’s no ticket office at Zagan to make reservations from) to Opole.

My first stop was the small Prisoners of War museum in Opole. It is the sister museum of the one in Lambinowice (which you sort of pronounce ‘Wambinowitsza’).

Then I checked into my hotel, Hotel Starka. The chef at the hotel restaurant makes his own pickles and booze!

The next day, I had a heavy breakfast and a coffee. Then set off for Opole train station to catch the train to Lambinowice.

And then I had a panic attack.

I don’t know why, I haven’t had one for a few years now. The last time I had one I was up the mast on the S. S. Great Britain and I looked down.

(It’s okay, you can laugh).

As I was walking along, my heart started racing. Then I went into a shop to buy a couple of things and thought I might pass out. Then I carried on to the station and sat down in the deathly silent waiting room and messaged my partner to tell him my heart was racing and that maybe I would either have to go to a hospital or cut my trip short and come home or die choosing.

Deep down, when I am having a panic attack, I know that I’m not really dying, but it is very difficult to focus on reality when it *feels* like you’re dying a little.

I did lots of slow breathing to bring my heart rate down while pretending to be totally fine because I was in public. In a deathly silent waiting room.

Then I got on the train, sat near a toilet (in case I needed to vomit everywhere) still panicking, and drank an entire bottle of water.

I got through the 38-minute ride and arrived at the station my grandfather, Fred, would have arrived at relieved. Which I didn’t think would have been how he felt arriving there at 22. Perhaps he would have been having a panic attack too though.

I walked through the middle of nowhere (thinking what the hell happens if people around here need to go to hospital because they are dying of a panic attack?) to the museum.

There I was met by museum educator Dominik, who had no idea I was at the tail end of a panic attack, and led me upstairs where he said he would leave me watching a film for 20 minutes while he checked on the Melek (electric golf buggy Poles call Meleks because that’s the brand name).

I was very grateful for the time to fully pull myself together.

When he returned I was feeling better. Not living my best life, but better.

We walked to the Melek where there was a driver waiting. And hopped on.

Chestnut Alley

The first stop along the way was Chestnut Alley, the chestnut tree-lined road that Fred would have marched along to get to the part of Stalag VIIIB for British prisoners.

If I had time travelled that day Fred would have been just up that path…

Sgt. F.

16784

Stalag VIII B

(Postcard)

5/09/40

My Dearest Mum, I have not heard from you yet but I expect there is plenty of mail on the way so I must be patient. I am quite alright but I am aching to hear how you all are at home. I started work yesterday so I shall have something to occupy my mind. Give my love to all. God bless you. Fred

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Whatever work Fred was doing gave him a real illness, pleurisy. Inflammation of the lungs. 

He was also suffering the effects of dysentery and was placed in the camp hospital. Camp hospitals provided very basic treatment.

Fred was 22, in a cramped and dilapidated camp in a foreign land without having heard from his mother for months. He was unable to write exactly what he wanted to her, in case the Luftwaffe censored his letters.

His Fiancé, Micki wrote a letter to Fred’s squadron asking for news of him…

Evelyn Crescent, Burton Stone Lane, York, Sept 24^th

Dear Mr Bowles,

I know you don’t know me but would you please help me.

I am Fred’s fiancée and as yet we have not had any word from him. Could you please tell us something about him. His mother is extremely worried, and so am I. We were to have been married at the end of the month Fred went missing.

I would be so grateful to you if you would send me some word.

My best wishes to you, and may I say on the behalf of everyone we think you are all marvellous. If there are any boys there I know please give them my best wishes.

I am Yours Sincerely

Mildred

 As soon as she heard from Fred’s mother that he was alive she wrote to Fred.

Oct 8^th 1940

Freddy my Darling,

I have just received your address from your Mum.

She wrote to me immediately she got it. I’m so happy darling I could cry, like the night you proposed to me. I feel the same tonight.

I’d give anything to see you walk up the garden path and see you smile at me…

I hope that you are now well precious.

It’s a year ago on the 31^st of this month since I first met you.

Of course you know darling I’m now very grown up having celebrated my 21^st birthday 4 months ago… you’re lucky my darling to have such a jewel of a mother…

Well my sweet cheerio.

The most important thing of all is that I still love you even more than I did before

Micki

[I love you]

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I’m not sure where this goes next. But I’ll send word soon.

Cheerio!