by Unknown
I looked at everything; naturally I had no idea of house building, but said to the man in a convincing tone: "Good, I'll build your house. You pick the four of us up each morning.
Don't forget the bread and the ruble for each of us. Now tell me, where are your plans? How is the house supposed to look?"
“I no plans, I need two rooms with windows and entrance. You can make everything all right. And tomorrow cement will be here again, and then at night a guard will always watch over everything. Here, your bread and rubles.” What was to be done with my three weak comrades?
The weakest, our physicist, had only to hold up a piece of string with a stone as plumb line. The farmer and the bricklayer had to stir the mixture and bring along the bricks and mortar on a nasilka. To “save face” with the Russians, I had to do the bricklaying, with professional advice from the bricklayer. I soon got the hang of how to work correctly with mortar and cement. Once again the villagers tried to buy cement from us. But we remained firm and made it a point of honor to build our employer a solid house.
On the second day the man was already in raptures: “Good house this will be, can kick it and nothing falls over.” We built the two rooms at our own discretion, the windows facing the Elbrus mountains, and also a doorway. We put up the walls in little more than a week.
“We are only specialists in masonry. For the wooden roof you'll have to find others.” We wanted to give the other prisoners too a chance to earn something extra.
When we had finished our work, I said to the natchalnik, “Listen, if you will pay us something extra, you can have something special from us, something no one else has in the whole Caucasus. All you have to provide is a bit more cement and some chalk.” He agreed at once, and we painted the red brickwork with white stripes.
“That is the most beautiful house I have ever seen. You give me monopoly of this. I want to be the only one in the town to have this marvelous thing.” In return for the payment of further rubles, I gave him my promise.
On the next day, our last, a stream of inquisitive people came up the hill to admire the marvel. A lot of functionaries now asked for the same decoration for their houses, but I kept the promise I had given.
After a few weeks, my “building master” took me and, full of pride, showed me the completed house and its bedroom suite, consisting of two beds, a wardrobe, and a table. It had been allocated to Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 289 him from Moscow and was to remain the only,one to reach the area in three years. A fresh stream of marveling people from the little town made the pilgrimage past the house on Sunday, this time to admire the bedroom through the window.
This was a further impression of conditions in the great Russian empire, together with its corruption.
During the period in which I was still building the fountain and the spiral staircase, I saw the SIS state limousine of the over-natchalnik leave his property almost every morning to drive his two children to school. On the return journey the chauffeur then bought milk, butter, cigarettes, flour, and sugar in the special shop for functionaries and natchalniks. To my dismay, I saw one day that the milk was fed to the pigs. I was equally dismayed at the sight of sacks of flour and sugar being unloaded in front of his house, at the same time the inhabitants were lining up at the state shops for a piece of bread or the rare sugar and flour rations.
I still had my propusk (exit permit), which I often used so that I could come back to the camp on my own after work. In doing so I often had conversations along the way with Russians and Georgians, and many confided in me, the stranger. They were discontented, but powerless in face of a system which they could not change by their own efforts. I enjoyed talking in particular with an old gentleman who had been a professor in what used to be Petersburg and was now exiled here for life. He lived out his days in humble circumstances and earned his keep as a letter-writer for the, many illiterates.
With regard to our camp life, too, a certain amount had happened in the meantime. By order of Moscow, something was now supposed to be done about kultura. First, with vigorous support from Jupp Link, a library was set up, in which there were only Russian books and newspapers. Much more important for us was permission to start a camp orchestra and a theater group, and the fact that we were allowed to pursue sports. In our camp, with about 3.,500 prisoners, there were musicians, music arrangers, stage designers, producers, actors, writers, and others ready at once to put plans into action. To our astonishment we were supplied with all the instruments necessary to form a complete orchestra. As an offshoot, there was a jazz band. The technicians and lighting experts, by order of Samcharadse, had to scrounge everything required for decor from the mine or on outdoor work. Props were made by our stage designers and painters from stolen materials.
Thus, in the course of time, the operetta Der Fischerjunge von Capri (“The Fisherboy of Capri”) came into being, composed by Walter Struve and “Koebcs” Witthaus, who also made the armnge-, ment for the orchestra, and text by Helmut Wehrenfennig. The whole score of the operetta Die Cmriksfuerstin (“The Csardas Princess”) was written down from memory by E. Kalman, the composer of the operetta. Professional singers were on hand, among them the tenor Reini Bartel. The women's parts were played by young amateurs, who before long were already acting like pros. The rehearsals alone evoked memories and longings in all of us.
In the winter of 1946/47, the first performance was attended by Samcharadse with his officers and NKVD minders, the over-natchalnik and the functionaries of the district, the dignitaries, so to speak. The production was a great success.
When the over-natchalnik asked about the origin of the floodlights, cables, etc., Samcharadse replied: “The prisoners found them.” At that a benign and understanding smile spread across the face of the over-natchalnik.
In time the theater and orchestra group acquired such fame that members of the opera in Tiflis, who came to our performances, asked whether the “prisoners' ensemble” might not be allowed to appear in their own opera house. We felt very honored, but unfortunately this went beyond what was practicable for the Russians. What would the consequences have been if prisoners had given a guest performance in a state opera house? Instead, our ensemble was sent to other camps including those of the Hungarians and the Japanese, and everywhere its success was assured.
The jazz band, of course, was particularly popular. Willi Glaubrecht, the drummer, is still alive today. Since any kind of jazz was forbidden in the Third Reich as “alien” and decadent, and since listening to Western transmitters was punished by concentration camp, interest in this music was particularly great. But no one was familiar with it.
As a Glenn Miller fan, I had found my way in Paris, during the time of our occupation, to a Negro band in a secret place, in a cellar, and there I had soaked up Glenn Miller's “In the Mood.” So I sang the melody note for note to our arranger. He'wrote it down and arranged it so the band could play “In the Mood.” Georg Vieweger was the reciter of the cultural group. Cabaret evenings were organized with Karl-Heinz Engels, and they were always monitored by our Russian politruk, Black Nena. She be Kuhura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 291 longed to the NKVD and was responsible for kultura; she was illnatured and by no means well disposed toward us. On one occasion the band had rehearsed and put on its program, which bad always to be presented first to Black Nena for approval, the march “Open Fire.”
“Niet,” was her reaction. “All you want to do is fire, nix Krieg.” Next day the title “Fire in the Camp” was presented to her.
“That is good, we -Russians like camp-fire,” came the approval.
It was the same march, only the title had been changed.
The Russians have a special relationship with kultura, as they call it. On the one hand they are very musical and allow their creative people special rights, provided they stay true to the party line. On the other, they have realized that music and other cultural, delights motivate people and make them forget for the time being how bitter reali
ty appears to them.
At the same time as the introduction of “cultural life” for the prisoners, the Antifa was also set up in the camp, an anti-Fascist group that was attached to the German camp commandant and watched over and “re-educated” by Black Nena.
It was joined by a few long-standing German Communists and also by some opportunists who hoped for alleviations and privileges through their membership. With the rest of us, the Antifa held no interest. The names of some of its particularly zealous supporters were remembered, and many of them were well and truly beaten up when we were released.
Besides the official activity of our orchestra and theater group, all the rooms had evening lectures by fellow-prisoners, among them doctors and scientists, who read papers on selected subjects or spoke of their experiences.
A particularly active member of the theater group proved to be Boris von Karzov. Born in Yaroslav in 1894, the son of a well-to-do family, he had even attended the tsarist cadet school in St. Petersburg, modern Leningrad, before he had to flee with his two brothers after the October Revolution. His brothers had chosen Paris and Madrid as their places of exile; Boris on he other hand went to Germany. He first attended a drama school, although the theater in the difficult years after the First World War was a waste of time. So he switched to industry, married and had a daughter, Tamara. She lives today in north Germany and has since told me much about her father and placed letters and photographs at my disposal which have provided a nice contribution to what I experienced in common with her father in our Camp 518.
Karzov spoke five languages fluently and for that reason was enrolled in the army at the start of the Second World War as an “interpreter special-commander.” I have a press photograph before me which shows Karzov with German and Russian officers when the “demarcation line” was drawn, after the Polish campaign in 1939, which was to partition Poland anew and bring so much suffering once more to the tormented Polish people-this time from both sides.
In the course of the Russian campaign, when the famous “Vlassov Army” was formed from captured and “liberated” officers and men, Karzov was employed as interpreter with a Cossack unit.
Photographs show him with Cossack officers in their distinctive uniforms on horseback.
These were units that stood no chance in the murderous battle with tanks. It was obvious that Karzov's activity and his Russian origin were bound to be highly suspect to the Russians.
Both were to prove fatal for him later.
In our camp Karzov remained unmolested at first. The authorities profited from his knowledge of languages and allowed him to take part in the theater group.
Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander
I will never forget the sessions when he read aloud the works of Pushkin and Dostoyevski. Even the Russian officers and NKVD functionaries frankly admitted, “Karzov speaks a wonderful Russian, such as we no longer know today. Our language has become simpler.” At the request of many, Karzov translated Pushkin's Eugen Onegin, and in doing so tried to retain the melodiousness of the Russian language even in German.
Karzov was very popular with everyone. We had some fine evenings together when Karzov told us stories of old Russia and gave us an understanding of Russian culture, music, and mentality. In contrast to the former SS and police officers, who were constantly being interrogated, Karzov to our surprise was left in comparative peace.
Then suddenly, one summer night in 1948, Karzov was removed from the camp. We had forebodings of something terrible.
His daughter Tamara has since confirmed to me what we came to know at the time through secret channels: Karzov had been transferred to a special camp near Smolensk, where he became Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 293 seriously ill.
As a result, he entered a military, hospital near Roslavl, south of Smolensk. According to a report by a German doctor, after his release from the hospital Karzov had been thrown into prison and attempts had been made to extract “confessions” from him.
Since nothing could be proved against him, he was taken to all the places where he had fought during the war in Russia and put on public display there. When he was released from prison in an extremely weak state, the same doctor again restored him to health.
According to the information of the Red Cross after the war, Karzov is supposed to have died in July 1949 in Smolensk. Thus the treatment, which he had bravely resisted for as long as he could, had probably in the last analysis meant his end after all.
Karzov's fate resembled that of the many who perished in punishment camps, former members of the SS and police, and the German soldiers who had fought against partisans.
After the first hard years in the camp there were now a few signs of improvement. From the radio sets taken out of Germany by the Russians and passed on-to him for repair, our radio mechanic had succeeded in removing enough parts that in the course of time he was able to construct a transmitter and receiver of his own, without rendering the Russian radios unusable. Other camps, too, had apparently hit on the same idea.
Naturally, only a few people could be let in on the secret of the existence of this set, which enabled us to listen to the West on shortwave and thus keep ourselves informed about the situation at home and in the rest of the world.
To prevent our set from being discovered, we packed it in a plastic cover and lowered it by day into the latrine. No one would look there, we hoped. Then at night we brought it out.
Until the day of our release the Russians were unable to solve the mystery of why we were always so well informed.
Probably the hardest psychological burden for us during the first years was the lack of any contact with our families at home. No one knew of the other, whether they were even still alive.
Then-probably through pressure from the Western powerswe were allowed at last to write a postcara once a month, which was permitted to contain 25 words, including the address. It was not much, but it was at least a sign of life which one could send and receive. Then, later, we were allowed to write a card with an unlimited number of words. This condition brought forth true artists in minute writing and competitions were held to see who could get the most words on a card. From the spring of 1948, we were then allowed one letter every three months. This chicanery too, for that was how we saw it, had to do with the Russian mentality.
The postal system is marked by the slackness and disinterest of the officials. But the vast distances in the great empire, this side and beyond the Ural mountains, as well as the ponderous system, also make normal communications almost impossible. In addition, the Russians have no feeling for time and space.
These are for them abstract concepts. How often in answer to our question about when we would finally be allowed to go home we were told, “What do you want? Russia is a big place. You can find bread, work, and women here. Why don't you want to stay here? Your wives at home have long since found other men.” With our different way of thinking what was there to say to this attitude to life?
The Russians with their fatalism put up with these conditions, the more so since they do not know how things are elsewhere or how much we in the West depend upon our means of communication.
I have known of Russian workers who have been taken from their beds at night somewhere in north Russia, put in a truck, and brought here to the Caucasus to work. To our question about what their wives had to say about it and what they would now live on with their children, the usual answer was, “Nitchevo, wife will work and perhaps get a man too, who will feed her and the children. I must see to it that I get by here.” Following on the “liberalization” through the kultura program and the activity of the Antifa group, a community had gradually formed which could offer resistance to the bad treatment and the food, which was as wretched as ever. Our activity as
“German specialists” had made us indispensable in many fields, which we exploited wherever possible for our own ends. Nevertheless, the treatment was often cruel.
Time and again individuals wo
uld be taken away at night for interrogation, either to prove them guilty of atrocities during the war or to extort from them statements about members of the SS and police who were in the camp.
Thus Ernst Urban, with whom I often spent the evening sitting by the camp fence, was taken away one night to the NKVD. He was accused of atrocities which one was supposed to know about. His name, place of birth, and other details were held up to him as proof that they knew all about him. When he protested his innocence, he was placed between two red-hot stoves and a bucket
Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 295 cold water was poured over him. Black Nena thought that this would force him to confess. It was not until hewas able to make the Russians see that on the basis of his date of birth he had not yet been twelve years old at the time of the atrocities that it became apparent that there must have been a confusion over names. We heard of many similar cases time and again. The Russians tried again and again to blackmail us anew through psycho-terror.
But to return to corruption. I met with a classic case through my concrete brigade.“ One evening the deputy of the Russian camp commandant came to see me and said, ”You tomorrow not to work, have special job for you. Find yourself twelve men who don't work in the mine. Fscort will fetch you.“ I suspected that some deal was being done here and scented a chance for us. So I said, ”If it's a special job, you'll have to pay, otherwise I'll write to Moscow about your schemes.“ The Russians knew only too well that a few people had previously managed to smuggle cards or letters out of the camp and send them by normal mail to Stalin personally or to the Supreme Soviet. They contained complaints or merely a simple inquiry about when we would finally be released in accordance with the Geneva Conventions. As we learned through our ”secret channels," a few cards had arrived and had subsequently been delivered back to the camp commandant endorsed with directions.