Being forcibly deported

It was 1947. World War II was over. Early this one sunny Sunday morning, our village was awakened by soldiers pounding on our door and ordering us to leave our houses. We had two hours to pack up what we could carry and report to the front of the church. We were not told why or where we were going. The entire village was in a panic with people crying and pleading for answers that didn't come. But not me. I didn't care. It couldn't be any worse that what I had already suffered. In fact, I even found it interesting.