by Unknown
Shifts were formed, one for the morning, the afternoon, and the night. We were away from the camp for twelve hours altogether: eight hours down the mine and a further four hours taken up by the march out and back. If we came back tired and with clothes wet through, the thin soup was quickly slurped up and then it was on the bunks to sleep.
To my great surprise one day I was appointed German camp commandant. Jupp Link became inspector of work. The Russian commandant even insisted that I wear my insignia of rank and my Knight's Cross as “signs of my dignity.” I received a propusk, an exit permit, which entitled me to leave the camp, alone and without supervision, up to ten o'clock at night. Among my duties I had also to maintain contact, in collaboration with Jupp Link, with the overnatchainik, the head of the coal mines and the most powerful man in the town. It was with him and his officials that the work norms had to be negotiated. Here too, for the most part, the Russian camp administration kept out of things.
When this great man heard that I had fought in Russia in 1941 as a German colonel, he asked me one day, “Where were you in action? With what division?”
“In the middle sector, with the 7th Panzer Division, via Smolensk and Vyazma to Klin and Yakhroma, north of Moscow.”
“Tell me about Yakhroma,” he went on, “exactly when were you there?” I was surprised by his interest but told him, "In December 1941 I advanced with my tank reconnaissance section via Klin to the Moscow-Volga canal and was able to cross it, the first unit to do so, at Yakhroma, about 30 to 40 kilometers north of Moscow.
I can well remember how we went into a little Russian inn to get warm. On the table stood the steaming samovar and an almost untouched breakfast, which we ate up with a good appetite." I was interrupted by his roar of laughter.
“That was my breakfast. I was a colonel in the reserve and during your surprise attack I had to leave Yakhroma and my breakfast rather abruptly. So small is the world, polkovnik, now you are here as a prisoner of war, and I am the boss of this town, in which I found myself at the end of the war. If you have any requests, I'll try to help you, although your camp commandant is responsible for you and I have merely engaged you for work.” After this meeting, our ways were to cross more often.
My activity as German camp commandant was only of short duration. The Russian camp commandants were replaced. The six camps in the Tkibuli area were in the province of Colonel Laroche, who came from a Huguenot family that had fled to Russia. With him, however, we had practically no dealings.
Our camp 518 came under Guard Captain Samcharadse, a Georgian.
His deputy was a Russian colonel (this too is possible in the Russian army). Both were army officers and were watched over by the NKVD, to which the notorious “Black Nena” also belonged, a politruk who came from Armenia.
I was summoned to Samcharadse and asked to specify by name all those in the camp who had been SS officers, members of police units or units that had been employed in partisan warfare. In return he offered me special rations and other privileges.
Beside him stood a NKVD officer, who watched me with mistrust.
My answer was confined to the words: “I don't know of anyone in the camp who was a member of these military units.” Naturally, there were several fellow prisoners whom I knew had been in the SS or the police, and several others of whom I suspected as much. But I took the point of view-and still do today-that every German prisoner of war was to be respected as such. If he had incurred any guilt he should, after his eventual release, be In the Coal Mines of the Caucasus Mountains 281 brought before a German court. In no event however, was he to be handed over to the Russians.
Since I declined to name any names, even after being given time for reflection, I was replaced as commandant. Jupp Link was given the post once more. At the same time I had to remove all my insignia and orders. Now we were all equal, and that was good.
The state of the barracks was wretched. Apart from periodic disinfection, delousing, and the whitewashing of the rooms, nothing was done. We suffered terribly from thousands of bugs, which nested in wooden bunks or dropped down from the ceiling at night. We got hold of some old tin cans from the mine and filled them with scrounged petrol, to prevent the bugs from climbing up. Every few weeks we took the bunks outside to burn them off with blowlamps, likewise scrounged, and destroy the hatching bugs. In all the years' it remained a hopeless struggle.
We suffered most from the rations. The 300 grams of bread per day, which officially was allowed to contain up to 30 percent water, drove some people to throw their portions angrily against the barrack wall, where the bread then stayed, stuck. The thin soup contained nothing nourishing apart from some millet flour or maize. Bread and watery soup formed the basis of our diet.
Sometimes we received all kinds of fish. Fellow prisoner Winand told me that he used to boil down the fish heads to get a soup and that he grilled the bones for another meal.
There was hardly any fat, no seasoning, no vitamins. As a result, the mortality rate from malnutrition rose rapidly.
While the familiar diseases of civilization were virtually absent, almost all the prisoners had retention of fluid in the legs. If this reached the heart, here too death was certain.
Further causes of death were the frequently occirrring cases of twisting of the intestine, through lack of fat. The medical team was helpless.
Our German doctors pointed out to the Russian commandants time and again that more workers would perish if the diet was not improved. But since the rations were fixed by Moscow, there was nothing to be done. On the contrary, we were cursed all the more because our “imperialist war” had made the food situation in Russia so bad.
A further disease of frequent occurrence was the infectious paratyphoid fever. Since it usually ended in death, the Russians were very anxious about the danger of infection and for this reason set up a closely guarded isolation ward.
One night Graf Hohenlohe, a young lieutenant, appeared by my bunk. He had been in the isolation ward with paratyphoid and in his delirium had walked out of the hospital barrack. The guard had obviously been asleep. We at once alerted the Russian doctor, as we were terribly afraid of infection. Hohenlohe died two days later.
None of us will forget the sight of the dead from the sick wards being piled onto old carts each morning and drawn out of the camp by emaciated prisoners of war, then to be hurriedly interred. We were not allowed to bury them 4pd furnish their graves with crosses and names. Despite the fact that it was forbidden, we wrote their names on scraps of paper, but these were then taken away from us again during the regular searches.
So we arranged that each person would make a mental note of one or two names, so that if he should go home relatives could be informed.
In the first two years, especially in the severe winters in the Elbrus mountains, about 50 percent of the prisoners of war died To be fair, it should be said that even the Russians, in the years 1945 and 1946, were not much better off than we as far as food was concerned. Many of them, however, had the chance of procuring something at the little market, where peasant women from the vicinity sold maize, eggs, and millet cakes.
After two years, we who had been spared by diseases and had not yet abandoned hope of going home had become acclimatized.
Hunger indeed remained, but so astonishingly did our strength.
There was a German dentist in the camp, who was supervised by Dr. Hollaender. His only equipment was a hand-driven drill.
There were also no anesthetics, so when necessary diseased teeth were extracted without any.
Worst of all were the military guards, who examined us for gold crowns and when they found any, broke them off with a pair of pincers without our being able to resist, so as to sell them later and thus supplement their miserable pay. For me personally, the result was that when I returned home I had to have my lower jaw chiseled out, as it was full of pus and the roots of the teeth had rotted.
One other peculiarity struck us. Moscow had ordained that offic
ers, in addition to the bread ration and the watery soup, which were the same for everyone, were to receive twenty grams of butter and a little sugar every day. Via Jupp Link we requested the Russian commandant to treat us exactly like the rest of the men. With a reference to the Moscow regulations, this was rejected out of hand. Jupp Link collected 400 signatures from among the officers and In the Coal Mines of the Caucasus Mountains 283 finally succeeded in getting the special rations -distributed equally to the whole camp, in the way we were accustomed to in the armed forces.
I was replaced, then, as German commandant and assigned to work in the pits. In the circumstances I felt fit and was glad in some ways not to be in an exposed position anymore, caught between two sides as it were, where it was a question of helping my many fellow prisoners and at the same time of keeping the Russian camp administration happy. I can understand better today how difficult the task must have been for young Jupp Link and how grateful we should all be for his efforts.
The main pit, in which I worked, had what was for European miners an incredible seam, which in parts was up to 15 meters thick. Rich bituminous coal, gleaming bright, was mined on a kind of chamber system. We worked alongside Russians and Georgians, who proved to be good mates and often shared their last bit of bread with us.
The authorities had forgotten to take away my propusk, so I could leave the camp at any time. The guards, who meanwhile knew me well, often asked me to get them something from the market and for this pressed their kopecks trustingly into my hand.
As in every enterprise in Russia, a “norm” was fixed for the extraction of coal, which everyone had to fulfill each day.
Although we were in poor physical shape, our mine workers in the early days worked at fulfilling the quota with German thoroughness and appli-, cation. One day one of the brigades exceeded the norm. The Russians pounced on them at once. '.Are you mad,“ they cried. ”As soon as the norm is exceeded even once, it is immediately raised for everyone the next day, and in spite of that we don't get one kopeck or one gram of bread extra. Fulfill the norm and that's it." It was a lesson to us.
On the other hand, I have seen some Russians, usually saklukhont s, in protest against their bad treatment, not fulfill the norm, or down tools for a while. To this the reaction qf the management was as simple as it was effective: for “transport reasons” there would be no bread for a few days, and the norm was soon fulfilled again.
In the pits hard coal was mined to a depth of up to 15 meters.
Safety measures in the pits were virtually unknown. On the one hand the management, centrally controlled from Moscow, could not get the necessary articles such as protective helmets, etc., diverted to the Caucasus, and on the other it was for them merely a matter of criminals and prisoners of war, among whom one more or less was not of great consequence.
In place of protective helmets we wore primitive caps. The mined areas were scantily supported. I am still astonished today at how few serious accidents occurred.
In the cold winter months we had to see to the heating of our barracks ourselves. The Russian commandant was in fact liable for this too, but since there was enough coal in the pits, he spared himself the expense. The mine administration strictly forbade the taking out of coal, but after every shift the mine workers had fairsized lumps of the rich mineral undertheir arms, which they carted back to the camp. There it was distributed equally between all the rooms. Thus the right hand did not know what the left was doing.
At the start of 1946-after only a few months down the mine-I was suddenly taken out and transferred to a road construction brigade. I do not know to this day whom I had to thank for this “transfer,” Jupp Link or the over-natchalnik, my “breakfast colonel” from Yakhroma.
Another chapter of my captivity began.
Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality The terrible, never-ending hunger remained. So too did the exhortations of the Russian guards and overseers. Their inevitable “Davail Davai!” was our daily accompaniment. We, the “survivors,” s'lowly found our own rhythm and began to adapt ourselves to the Russian mentality. Not only the mine workers but even the outdoor detachments were soon regarded as the specialists, honest and industrious and not as corrupt as our Russian “colleagues.” If we were shouted at, we shouted back.
To our surprise we were then implored, “Please go on working or we shall be in trouble.” Anyone who imaned that working on Russian roads meant repairing macadam surfaces or laying out new roads with earthmoving equipment, as would be done in the West, would have been very much mistaken. We had rather to pave and make fit for traffic a mud road that led to the wooden houses of the natchalniks, which lay somewhat apart. For this, Studebaker trucks, which the Americans had supplied by the thousand, brought us rough, unhewn stones. Kneeling on the ground, we set these in the mud.
Sometimes I saw the over-natchainik, my “breakfast colonel” from Yakhroma, drive past in his state limousine. One day he recognized me, stopped, and spoke to me. “What are you doing here? Why have you been set to work as a mere -laborer and not as a 'specialist'? I shall speak to your commandant.” He obviously did so, for a few days later I was summoned to Samcharadse. “From tomorrow on you will be working as leader of a concrete brigade. Pick yourself a few specialists in the camp. An escort will take you to your new work place.” Jupp Link helped me to find a few of the strongest men who were left. The only “specialist” among them was a bricklayer. The others were physicists, farmers, and clerks, who were too weak for mine work.
Next morning the escort came and took us to a building site above the mine, where a Russian brigade was already at work.
“Clear off, you sons of whores,” the Russian manager shouted at this brigade. "You've stolen most of the cement and sold it.
The Nemetzkis, the Germans, will show you how to work." What was there for us to do? We had to dig out a hole roughly four meters by four to a depth of eight meters and then shore it up with balks of wood and line it with concrete. It was supposed to form a cuff for the filling in of an exhausted section of the mine. By' way of equipment we had balks of wood, gravel, and a few sacks of cement, as well as shovels, an iron plate for mixing, and the famous, notorious nasilkas. Nasilkas are simple hand-barrows with two grips at each end. These are used throughout Russia for carrying materials.
With the help of a simple diagram that had come from Moscow, the Russian overseer then told us what was to be done, and then once more came the “Davai, get going!” And "Dig hole deeper, shore up hole and line with concrete. Mixture should be one to seven.
I'll come back in a few hours. Heaven help you if you steal cement." He then abandoned me and my men to our fate.
He had hardly turned his back on us before the first Russians and Georgians came along. “Comrade, you sell us cement,” they begged. “House falling down. We give you bread and rubles.” So that was how it was with corruption!
Since many of the necessities of life, then as now, are not available and cannot be bought by the ordinary citizen, for everything had to go through state organizations, they have to be “fiddled.,, Thus corruption is a matter of course, almost ”legal." So I allocated my men according to their strength and told our Russian sentry in unmistakable terms to guard our materials.
“If one single sack of cement is missing, you'll be for it,” was my terse comment.
After little more than a week we had dug out the pit, lined it, and begun the backbreaking work of mixing the gravel and cement by hand with our shovels and carrying it on the nasilkas to the pit. Then the over-natchalnik appeared.
"I must say, the Germans are all specialists and good workers.
I am very pleased. The norm is fulfilled and no material sold.“ And turning to me: ”You're a good concreter, polkovnik. So I , have a special job for you. Can you build me a stone staircase onto my house and a fountain? All the materials will be there."
“That's okay,” I replied, “but you must ask the camp commandant and pay us every day with bre
ad and kopecks.” Next day he was there again. In the meantime he had “arranged” everything. I do not know how much he had to pay Samcharadse.
Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 287 To carry out this commission I chose the bricklayer again', the physicist, who was still very weak physically, and a farmer from my home district. The natchalnik took us personally from the camp.
“No escort for you. Here's a chleb, a loaf of bread, for each of you.,, ”And where are the kopecks?" I asked.
“Saftra, money comes tomorrow.”
“No, now, or we won't even start.” At that we received our money, with which we at once bought some vegetables and a Georgian maize flat cake at the local market.
After a week the fountain was finished, though without any water, as the pressure was too low.
“It doesn't matter,” said the natchalnik, “the fountain is very, nice as it is.” Next, we set about building him his spiral staircase out of concrete slabs. Each day we received our bread and kopecks before the start of work.
Word had gotten around about our “skills.” Other under-natchainiks and functionaries appeared to see for themselves. One of them spoke to me.
"Wonderful. You soon finished here. Will you build my house?
All materials there and well guarded.“ Again I gave the same answer. ”Ask the camp commandant and then a loaf and a ruble each for the four of us every morning." He too apparently came to an. agreement with Samcharadse, f6r when we had finished the first job, he took us to another hill, on which his house was supposed to be built. We found a lot of materials there, which had all been fiddled together during the past months, as the man told us with pride. But there was only a little cement. Four Russian convicts had already been working there and had just laid the foundations and raised a bit of walling.
“The sons of whores have been working here for two weeks already. Come and see what they've done.” He gave the finished piece of wall a kick and it fell over at once. Instead of working with the correct mixtre of cement, they had sold as much of the cement as they dared and mixed it in a ratio of only one to twenty.