On the Trail of a French Prisoner of War in Germany

This post was written by Elisabeth Zetland, researcher at MyHeritage. It was originally posted on our French blog.

I have long hoped to reconnect with the German family that had such a great impact on my grandfather’s life. I never met my maternal grandfather, Roger Dubuc. He passed away when I was only four months old. I don’t remember when I first heard his story but it quickly became a mystery that intrigued me, and I decided that I had to solve it.

Roger’s story began like that of many other French soldiers, but it suddenly took an abrupt turn. At the age of 20, on June 22, 1940, he was captured in Vannes without ever having fought in the war. When he left French soil, he didn’t imagine that it would be five long years before he would return home again. His father Léon had also been a prisoner of war in Germany at the end of WWI, but had returned home after seven months.

What I did know is that Roger, like thousands before him, had been sent to work in the service of a German family. He later kept in contact with this family until the end of his life. We had no remaining letters (what happened to them? Were they destroyed?). But there were pictures, Roger’s English and German language books, and old German banknotes.

On the back of a photo, I saw a marking — “Stalag XB” — and his prisoner number, which became the starting point of my research. A simple search on the Internet in late 2003 led me to Stalag XB — a WWII German prisoner of war camp located near Sandbostel in Lower Saxony in northwestern Germany. I was fortunate to find a website with materials dedicated to the camp. I wrote an email to several contacts to get more information about Roger. One answer brought me a valuable clue: the name of the village that he had been living in, Sandstedt.

Time passed and, in 2012, I resumed my search, and I wrote a MyHeritage blog post about my family history describing the mystery behind Roger’s story. I posted the photo of Roger with the German family; people that I wished that I could name. My German colleague Silvia (I cannot thank her enough!) translated my post and published it on the German MyHeritage Blog in May 2012. A year and a half later, in November 2013, I received the answer that changed my life. I learned that one should never despair. You just have to be patient, and you may get lucky!

Karla, a German MyHeritage user who was looking for old photos of Sandstedt, read my blog post that had been translated into German, and she posted a comment. She wrote that she lives in Sandstedt and that she knows the family in the picture. The moment that Silvia told me about this comment, I got goosebumps. Even now, every time I think about it, I still can’t believe my good fortune.

The second message from Karla soon followed, with the name of the young girl and the little boy in the picture. After all these years, the faces in the photo with my grandfather finally had names: Hans-Adolf and Elfriede. Thanks, Karla!

I was put in touch with the daughter of the German family, Elfriede, who was then 84. Our correspondence continued, and we wrote each other for almost two years. I had many questions to ask. Elfriede tried very hard to bring Roger’s memory back to life for us.

It was especially emotional to correspond with Elfriede, just as my grandfather, Roger, had done, many decades ago. My mother remembered hearing that her family had received a dress from Elfriede when she was born, but she didn’t know anything else about Elfriede.

The German family had lost a 19-year-old son (Heinz, the eldest brother of Elfriede) in February 1945. Roger was treated like a member of the family, as a son. Elfriede told me that he loved to swim in the river and go fishing. He loved the local foods that they prepared for the New Year. He learned German and eventually spoke the language almost fluently.

In July 2015, a mere five weeks after my daughter was born, I boarded an airplane with my mother and baby, and we made the trip back to Roger’s past. It took many years, but Roger’s daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter were finally on their way to uncover a part of his life that had been deeply significant to him.

Elfriede was always very warm in our correspondence. Nonetheless, my mother and I still worried about how we would be received by the family. How would we spend the rest of the week? What would we gain from the visit?

Their warm welcome exceeded all of our expectations. The first pleasant surprise was when we arrived at Bremen Airport: Dieter, Elfriede’s son, was waiting for us. We were welcomed with open arms and truly spoiled by Dieter and Maria, his wife.

We spent an unforgettable week in the place where Roger had lived during the war. Sandstedt is a charming little village in Lower Saxony, located nearly 40 kilometers from Bremen.

During the visit, we were told that Elfriede and Roger had a special connection, but they dodged my question when I tried to get more specific answers.

One highlight of our trip was a great surprise for my mother and me. A neighbor, Johan, brought over the newspaper one day, and when the family told him who we were and why we were visiting, he was speechless. Johan began to tell us a story from September 11, 1942. Then 11, Johan was working in the field when there was an accident that almost cut his leg off. It was Roger who intervened and saved him. Johan described how Roger had acted immediately and did everything he could to help. He even showed us the scar on his leg. Now we were speechless. Johan kissed my mother and me, and we were so happy to hear the story.

We also went to Sandbostel, about 60 kilometers from Sandstedt. We were greeted warmly by Andreas Ehresmann, the director of the Sandbostel memorial. I’m not sure how long Roger was there before he was sent to the farm at Sandstedt. One thing for sure: he was lucky not to have been left there for long, as many prisoners died there of starvation, disease, or were killed at the hands of their captors. The visit was emotional for me and my mother, walking my newborn daughter in her stroller around the site.

We were in Sandstedt for a week, from July 3-10, 2015. The story has come full circle: Dieter and Maria recently visited my mother in my hometown (and that of my grandfather and my mother). Although we are not related by blood, the feeling is mutual; they are my German family.

I want to thank my German colleague, Silvia, who served as my interpreter for over two years and helped with my correspondence with Elfriede.