Better Not to Know

By Keith C. Payne

For decades, the world has never known the real truth.

Now three young men are going to discover exactly what it is, but only one of them will ever discover the ultimate truth.

We have our beliefs, and it is not going to be easy traveling through Europe, the Canary Islands, and South America. It would be a lengthy journey, taking several years. Certainly, it wouldn’t be without its dangers.

Would we survive to make the world aware of our discoveries? In fact, would we even decide that it is safe to declare the results?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728388793

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Unless you actually live—or should I say exist—under these conditions, it is difficult, no, impossible to understand our everyday life and the despair it brings, thought Paul. To actually understand, you must put yourself in my position. Understand my frustrations, understand my hurt.

I awoke one morning from a troubled sleep. It was January 1955, and the sun was shining through my window frame. It was very cold, and I shivered so much as there was no glass in the window.

My bedroom was very small indeed. The only furniture inside was my bed, so it really didn’t matter too much. The bed was not that comfortable as it seemed to slant from one side to the other. I was never sure if the legs were different sizes or if our floorboards sloped. The mattress was just a few layers of cardboard and never comfortable, even when the cardboard was replaced. Lying there, I sometimes amused myself watching the spiders trap the other insects which made the many cracks in my bedroom walls their uninvited home.

I sat up and inched myself to the side of the bed. Using my arms, I lifted myself and looked out of the window. Everything seemed so peaceful, although nearly every building in sight was damaged in some manner or another.

In an attempt to provide much-needed sustenance, some of our neighbours had grown vegetables behind their homes. Few were successful, either because the condition of their soil was poor and the plants failed to materialise or because what did grow was stolen, presumably by other desperate people.

My anxieties continued over breakfast, if you can call scraps of dry bread and ersatzkaffee, an artificial coffee made from acorn and barley seeds, breakfast.

Like others, our building was damaged. I was told it was a result of regular bombings nearby as the Second World War entered its final throes. I walked downstairs cautiously, taking each step as though it would give way underfoot and send me crashing through this weak and damaged structure.

Monika, my foster mother, told me we once had things called geländers to hold onto and keep us safe as we walked up and down the stairs, but they were used as firewood which Monika used to cook our food in the fireplace, if and when we were fortunate enough to obtain any food. At least that was her story.

Now, when using these stairs, you had to keep as close to the wall as possible. Sometimes I thought the wall, with its missing bricks and large cracks, was far more dangerous than the stairs themselves.

Downstairs, there was no sunlight as what was left of our window frames was filled with anything except glass. The room was gloomy, dark, and extremely damp. There was no heating; in the colder months, whenever I breathed out the hot air from my lungs, clouds of condensation formed.

Our breakfast room was only a little larger than my bedroom, and it also functioned as our sitting room. My foster parents, Dieter and Monika, were already seated at our breakfast table. It was really wooden packing cases, slightly strengthened, which Dieter somehow managed to obtain from a special friend. Splinters along the edges of the table and seats always meant eating and sitting with extreme care.

When Monika sensed something was wrong, she asked, Are you all right, Paul? You seem upset.

Well, sort of, was my quick response.

What do you mean, sort of? Monika questioned.

What’s wrong with me? I asked.

Absolutely nothing’s wrong with you, Paul. Why do you ask?

I thought about my reply for a moment as Monika and Dieter were always extremely kind to me. I love you and Dieter so much, but why didn’t my real parents love me?

You mean your biological parents, Paul? Dieter and I are your real parents. We are the ones who have clothed you, fed you, loved you, and cared for you during your early years.

Yes, I know that, Mother. But why did they get rid of me? What had I done wrong? Why didn’t they want me to live with them? Why didn’t they want me to know anything about them?

Paul, calm down and listen, ordered Dieter. Your mother and father both loved you dearly. But as the war was ending in favour of our enemies, everyone had heard frightening stories of all sorts of revenge attacks taken against our people.

What sort of stories? I asked.

Many and so nasty I just can’t tell you. And although your biological father was an extremely loyal and patriotic citizen, he feared the thought of living under such occupation and believed it would be better for both of them if they moved somewhere safer, leaving you under our protection, Dieter replied.

I was puzzled. Somewhere safer? And they didn’t take me with them? Please tell me why. Where are they now, Dieter?

I just don’t know Paul, although I do know that your mother and father parted shortly after you were born. Your father left Germany, but your mother stubbornly refused to leave her homeland.

So my mother stayed in Germany, but she still left me with you and Monika?

I received no answer to this and always wondered whether it had to do with me or if it was for some other reason. Although I was told little of my early years, I continued to believe it was my fault that I was no longer with either of my parents.

If my mother didn’t leave Germany, as Dieter stated, then where was she, and why had I never seen her? One question just seemed to generate another.

Their parting was nothing to do with you, Paul. When you’re a little older, I will explain, Dieter replied.

I had been down this path before. And although only a youngster, I was certain there was something or some reason. I wasn’t getting the answers I deserved. But why can’t you tell me now? They were my real parents. I have a right to know! I shouted.

Yes, your biological parents, acknowledged Monika.

Well, I still have a right to know, I stated angrily.

Yes, you have a right to know, and we will tell you. But not now, Dieter scolded.

I was ten years old, and whatever they were going to tell me once I was old enough to know would still be the same story as if they had told it to me today. Surely my age wasn’t the real reason; there had to be something else.

But why not tell me now? You must know, I challenged.

Enough, Paul, Dieter said.

OK, so you and Monika tell me about yourselves and why you look after me. Tell me anything, about anybody.

Stop this now, Paul. You are just far too young, he commanded.

His tone and attitude were ones I rarely experienced, certainly towards me. I had on occasion witnessed this type of response to others who questioned Dieter, especially when he didn’t like what they were asking. I realised this was my type of reaction when I didn’t want Monika and Dieter to know when I had done something wrong.

My questions were easy and simple to answer, so my foster parents’ lack of a suitable response would have to be because of something they didn’t want me to know. Just what was it they were hiding?

The atmosphere in the house was tense, so I decided to visit my best friend, Karl Meyer. Goodbye. I’m going to play with Karl.

OK, they both responded. It seemed they were just pleased to be freed from my questioning, at least for the time being.

Where are you going? asked Dieter.

Not sure, but it’s much too cold to go swimming in the River Havel. So it’s probably going to be a game of street football as there’s not much else to do.

Well, behave yourselves, and don’t get into trouble, ordered Dieter.

Like any child, I wanted to know about my biological parents, although I loved Monika dearly. Just like any mother, she was always supporting me and my friends and telling Dieter to allow us to be children. As I left the house, she said, Don’t worry about being naughty, Paul. Just don’t get caught doing it. Enjoy yourself, and see you later. She laughed.

As Monika regularly demonstrated, I knew she would always put my care and safety before her own, at any cost. Although I was only ten years old, Monika wasn’t much taller than me, and just like Dieter, she had brown eyes and brown hair. She was slim and very, very pretty. At least I thought so.

Dieter was not obese for his 1.8-metre height, but he was what you might call solid and proportionally well built, probably weighing one hundred kilograms or thereabouts. His hair was the touchiest of subjects, often varying in colour from a light brown to black with just a tint of brown. He definitely didn’t like comments made about it or people asking him why it differed so much and so often. I also wanted to know why, but Monika always warned me not to ask. It was an innocent enough question, so why shouldn’t I ask about his hair?

No matter what clothes Dieter dressed in, no matter how old the garments, he was always impeccable in his appearance. He also possessed a commanding personality few wished to argue with. Those who did appeared to be rooted to the spot by that rigid stare from his penetrating brown eyes. Just the tone of his voice would also stop them instantly in their tracks. He was certainly somebody you didn’t want to upset!

Despite this, Dieter always treated me with utmost compassion, that is until I said or did something that transgressed his rigid guidelines, or indeed asked him about his varying hair colour or the scar beneath his left arm, which Dieter always boasted, with a smile, was a bullet wound he’d received when attacking an enemy outpost single-handed.

CHAPTER 2

Shortly after, I arrived at Karl’s and banged on the door with my fist. They didn’t have a knocker; this metalwork had been exchanged for black market food.

Since the war had ended, food had become very scarce as we were unable to grow sufficient for our needs.

Adjacent countries were, understandably so, loath to help us with supplies when they struggled themselves.

Starvation amongst our people was now rife, and therefore those with the means and the money would benefit from illegal transactions to obtain much-needed supplies such as food and medicine.

If you didn’t have cash these particular dealers would be prepared to accept moneymaking materials or goods in return which they could sell at a profit, like brass and other metals. Hence Karl’s missing knocker!

Helga, Karl’s mother, opened the door with a smile and shouted, Karl, it’s Paul for you.

Karl’s little sister, Lise, rushed over to me. I had to bend a little so it was easier for her to hug me. Hello, Paul. Have you come to play with me? she innocently asked.

Yes, Lise, you can come and play football with us if you like, her brother interrupted.

I had known Lise since she was born. She had always been a fun-loving mischievous little girl. When she wasn’t irritating me and Karl, she could be most amusing.

She was skinny, and her long fair hair, which hung more than halfway down her back, certainly suited her, although it was her big disadvantage when she annoyed Karl. Her long hair was much easier for him to grasp hold of.

Lise was now six years old. She willingly joined us as she always enjoyed playing a game of football with me, Karl, and our friends. Although not that good at it, she enjoyed mixing it with the boys, and she used the excuse that she was only a little girl whenever she deliberately tripped us up.

Karl, Lise, and I knocked for others, and then we played football in the local streets until late afternoon.

As they rebuild the destroyed houses and other street constructions, Paul, we are finding fewer and fewer places to play our games of football, Karl noted.

I agree with you, Karl. And when we play in the streets, there’s always somebody who moans at us or tells us to clear off and find somewhere else to play. Do you remember that happened last week when we played near Peter Schmitt’s house?

One of his neighbours told us to go and play elsewhere, Karl responded.

Although it had now been five years since the war ended, rebuilding the horrendous destruction of our towns and cities was an extremely slow process, and places for children to play weren’t anywhere near the top of the government’s list of priorities.

Play elsewhere? There wasn’t an elsewhere!

We stopped for a rest and sat against a crumbling brick wall where ivy had strongly established itself along the cracks in the failed pointing. One of our older friends, Otto, asked whether anyone had something he could eat. He said his mother hadn’t given him any food since the day before yesterday and he was absolutely starving.

As was his kind and generous nature, Karl said he had something. It was not a lot, but he would be pleased to share.

Otto was indeed most grateful, remarking, We are so poor and often can’t afford anything to eat.

From what I had witnessed these last years, even if you could find somebody to sell you food in the first place, nobody except the dishonourable wealthy had money to buy it.

Have any of you eaten meat? I have eaten some a few times, although that was a long time ago, Otto continued. My father told me it was rabbit, although a friend said it was probably rat. Today you never, ever see rabbit in the shops. It just doesn’t seem to exist anymore. It’s 1955, and my parents say it’s still like the days of the 1947 hunger riots.

From there we talked in greater depth about the restrictions and the many hardships we suffered under the Soviet occupation.

Arriving home and sitting down at the table alongside Dieter and Monika, I apologised for my morning outburst and said I hoped I hadn’t upset either of them.

That’s OK, Paul. We’re just pleased you’re home safe and sound, Monika said as she leaned across and gently stroked my hand.

I understood Monika’s concern. Where we lived, there were many unexploded bombs hidden in the rubble, so just walking down the street was a danger. Every now and then, they would cause an explosion somewhere in our booby-trapped village. It just wasn’t safe for anybody.

We sat down to eat our potato soup, the fifth serving of the past week, which tasted more like warm water than a tasty meal, and it prompted me to ask Monika and Dieter about Otto and his family’s lack of food.

My friends and I were talking about the 1947 hunger riots today and asking why we all have so little to eat.

Dieter remained silent for a while, but it was noticeable he didn’t make use of his normal phrase, Wait until you’re older, Paul. His silence seemed to last for ages. I began to think this was another tactic of his to avoid telling me anything about the past.

All of a sudden he spoke, saying, Well, Paul, sometimes people have to make at least some effort to support themselves, instead of just moaning about it. Anyway, back to your question about the 1947 hunger riots. Firstly, they weren’t riots. They were marches. And secondly, they happened because thousands of German people protested the lack of food available to them as well as the serious medical concerns this hunger was causing everyone.

Thank you, Father. But we are still hungry today, and it’s 1955, eight years after those marches.

Once again there was a long pause. Dieter looked at Monika before replying. Well, Paul, nearly all wars create a level of destitution.

Although I had always thought destitution meant eating potato soup every single day, I asked Dieter to explain.

Monika rarely interrupted Dieter, but on this occasion she quite deliberately spoke across him, saying, "It is when people are so very poor that they are unable to provide for themselves.

Sometimes, she continued, "this is due to a lack of money and sometimes to a lack of produce.

"Sometimes it is your own fault and sometimes others’.

Wars always result in extremely traumatic situations and are nearly always created by governments or religion. So, Paul, please remember what I’ve just said and avoid both!

While I wouldn’t say Monika was disagreeing with Dieter’s interpretation, she did explain the overall situation in much simpler terms and got directly to the core of the problem.

Perhaps Monika was my best chance to find out more about how and why I came to live with them and for me to learn more about my real parents—sorry, my genetic parents—and perhaps more detail about exactly why they left me.

Then tell me why other countries are also suffering from a lack of food. What is the reason for that?

Dieter stared at Monika again and squeezed her hand gently before saying, OK, Paul, you think you are old enough to hear some answers, but you must understand that while my replies will be honest, there are some things that at this moment in time I still do not wish to disclose.

In the damp, dark kitchen space with wavering shadows cast by the flickering candles in the corner, his words had an eerie feel to them. There was obviously more he wished to keep hidden from me, at least for now.

To begin with, your original name was not Paul but Wolfgang. This is not a popular name with the invaders who now run our country because of this name’s heritage, so we renamed you Paul, a common name used throughout Europe. And obviously Schneider is our surname.

But, Father, other boys are still called Wolfgang, so why change my name?

"I’ve just tried to explain that, Paul. Anyway, at the time, Monika and I thought it best.

When we lived in Austria, my mother and father were very good friends of your grandparents, so when your biological father wanted someone to look after you, Monika and I were the ones chosen.

Yes, but they must have had other friends, so why you and Monika in particular? I asked.

Dieter was about to respond when I noticed Monika squeezing his hand again, but this time quite forcibly. "No, Monika. I’ll finish what I’m saying, and that will be it for now.

Also, Paul, my dead brother served in the First World War alongside your father. Since those days, our families have created not only a strong friendship but also a trustworthy one, and it was therefore natural for your biological mother and father to ask us to care for you.

Father, what was …?

No, Paul, that’s it for tonight, so off to bed. We’ll talk about some of your other questions another time.

But if they were such good and trustworthy friends, why is it we never see any of them any …?

"No. Bed!" he repeated.

Although Dieter’s comments had been interesting, they were what I would now call surface detail—something which is said to keep the interested party quiet but which doesn’t fully answer the question in hand. What I really wanted to know was those answers hidden beneath his statements.

I climbed into my sparsely covered bed, leaving my clothes on, as my ‘blanket’ was more like a sheet. During the night I often shivered from the cold that invaded our bedrooms.

Dieter had said that my biological parents were good friends, family friends. So why have they never been mentioned before? And as I asked Dieter, if they were such good friends, why have I never met them? Was this just another story to keep me quiet? And if it was, then why?

Lying there, I kept thinking about what Dieter had said. As I tried to sleep after my tiring day, many different thoughts about what I needed to ask him and Monika went around and around in my head.

One question, and how I would need to phrase it to avoid annoying him, just led to another question and so on. These kinds of thoughts would continue to occur for ages to come, even though the information I was seeking was definitely something they both knew, as I would at some stage discover.

As a result of my restless night, I awoke later than normal. Although I had arranged to meet Karl, I was in no rush to get ready. I pulled on my socks, and both my big toes poked through holes in the end.

Good morning, Paul. Don’t forget to clean your teeth was Monika’s basic greeting as I entered the kitchen.

Has Father gone to work? I asked.

Gone to work? How many more times must I tell you, Paul? He doesn’t have a job—well, not a regular one anyway.

So where does he go each day? And what does he do?

As I keep telling you, he visits friends and tries to find work and food.

Don’t you think it unusual that Father goes out nearly every day to visit friends and look for food? Why doesn’t he stay home and talk to us or even …?

Oh, Paul, please go and clean your teeth.

But, mother, he could tell me about my real parents. Why do you never tell me anything about them?

Paul … teeth!

It was never a nice task rubbing chalk onto my teeth with a piece of rag. But what about my breakfast first? I asked, hoping this would delay the unpleasant task a little longer.

Sorry, Paul, there is nothing to eat. And it depends on your father being able to barter for some.

Perhaps this was why Dieter had seemed upset with me last night when I asked about the hunger marches. Obviously eight years later there was little change in our welfare, and food was still scarce. But surely there was more to Dieter’s everyday outings than just bartering.

CHAPTER 3

I was so pleased the winter had ended some time ago. It was now approaching summertime and therefore was warmer.

It must have been about midday when I, Karl, Lise, Otto, and another friend, Peter Schmitt, arrived at the riverbank for a swim. The weather was nice and warm.

The banks were devoid of plant life with the exception of a few trees and the odd bush which lined this meandering waterway.

We walked on until Lise found what she called a suitable spot, sheltered from the breeze and bathed in glorious sunlight.

Karl, Otto, and Peter stripped off their clothes and jumped into the river, screaming out loudly immediately upon hitting the water. Although the weather was nice and warm, the water was still bitterly cold.

Lise said it was much too cold for her to go into the water and she would enjoy herself sitting in the sunshine. I agreed and said I’d stay to keep her company on the riverbank while we watched the others enjoying themselves in the freezing water. I wasn’t going to freeze!

Then from behind me I heard Lise say, That’s what you think, Paul. All of a sudden I felt an unexpected push in my back.

As with my other friends, the extremely cold water immediately took my breath away as I plunged into the river, head first and fully clothed.

When I surfaced and clambered out of the river, Lise was still laughing hysterically.

Walking home, we talked about what we would do the next day. A giggling Lise didn’t like my suggestion that we all come back here and throw her into the river by her hands and legs.

Alternatively, Lise decided we would go to the local bomb site, build a camp, and roast a potato or two over an open fire, if indeed our parents had any potatoes we could steal from them.

Incidentally, as you now understand, food was scarce, and the consequences of getting caught taking food from your parents were rarely fun.

Otto raised another topic when he made the comment that whenever he had taken any of the fish he caught in the river home to his family for dinner, his father had remarked that although they were very hungry, the fish had such a horrible muddy taste that he’d rather eat a piece of cardboard.

And a while later, when I told him many fish had been seen floating dead in the river, my father said it’s likely our enemies didn’t like the taste either and dropped all their bombs in the River Havel, Otto said with a smile.

Nobody commented. After what seemed like several minutes, Lise and Karl laughed, and Lise made the point, Oh yes, that was a joke, Otto!

It took you a long time to figure that one out, Lise, my clever little friend!

Yes, Otto, but it really wasn’t that funny, she replied.

The overall conversation made me think that despite the hunger Otto’s family experienced, they could still joke about it, although in reality it was no laughing matter.

All of our families often went days without anything to eat, and quite often it would result in severe stomach pains for one or another of us. When we did eventually eat, there was always so little, and it had to be shared between all of our family. This then created mental anguish as to when the next morsel would arrive, perhaps another few days, perhaps another week. Can you imagine that?

My thoughts were immediately removed from this particular subject as there was a thunderous crash from an adjacent building and volumes of brick dust and dirt clouds appeared in the sky. I supposed it was the accidental detonation of yet another unexploded bomb.

Karl said he knew the family who lived there and told us they’d had to leave because the foundations were so dangerous and the building was to be demolished anyway.

Looking at the houses alongside, I saw there were extensive cracks in the brickwork. Some of the houses had large holes where bricks should have been and, exactly like our house, no glass and in some cases no window, just a hole in the brickwork where the window frames used to be.

Some of these buildings had no front door either, just another large opening which continually collected the dust and debris which swept across the street.

These must also be ready for demolition, remarked Otto, and yet they are in better condition than my house. You have seen inside my home, Paul. Although we have a front door, unlike some of these, it really isn’t much better.

Peter Schmitt immediately commented, Otto, you always talk as though you and your family are the only people with problems. Talk to Karl, talk to Lise, talk to Paul; it is the same for all of us.

Yes, but we have no money and rarely anything to eat, Otto continued.

Raising his voice to a high pitch, Peter almost shouted, So do you think it’s any different for us? We have no food, no clothes, no shoes, no heat in our houses during the freezing months, no work for our parents, no money. It is exactly the same for every one of us, Otto.

Peter lowered his voice and finished his comments in a more kindly manner, saying, All we can try to do, Otto, is help our friends as best we can and not continually moan about it all.

Otto turned directly towards us all with tears in his eyes and replied, I’m so very sorry. I didn’t want it to sound as though it was only our family with these problems. I know we all suffer.

Karl was the first to approach Otto. Almost spontaneously, everyone in the group was hugging each other. It was a unifying bond of friendship amongst youngsters who clearly demonstrated they were old enough to understand just how difficult and testing it was to live here in Germany at this point in time, and probably elsewhere in Europe, which suffered the aftereffects of this disastrous confrontation: World War II.

As we walked towards our various homes, Lise took Otto’s hand and talked to him while attempting to put him at ease. This was my sweet little Lise, demonstrating yet again what an extremely kind and thoughtful person she was.

As I was standing by our front door the following morning, two exceptionally loud knocks made me jump. Once I opened the door, apparently with a shocked expression on my face, Karl, Lise, Otto, and Peter all stood there laughing at my reaction.

Walking from my front door, Monika shouted her customary question: Where are you going, Paul?

To the ruined orchard to see whether there are any fruit tree windfalls we can eat.

"OK, but as always, be careful, and don’t play on the bomb site."

We won’t, I lied knowingly.

As we strolled towards what was left of the ruined orchard, I asked Otto, Have you eaten anything this morning?

Nothing, and I’m still starving, so I do hope there are some windfalls at the orchard.

Me too, as I’ve not eaten either. Father is trying to get us something for tonight, I said.

So, does anyone have potatoes for the fire? Peter asked.

Nobody replied.

We arrived at the derelict orchard with bomb holes everywhere, all of