by Albert Holl
BACK IN STALINGRAD
The time must be already well advanced but which of us notices that with the continuing strain on our physical strength? We are asked if anyone is unable to march. It is said that those not capable of marching will go to a hospital, but after the experience of the last days I am sceptical, especially when I look around me in the ravine of death! Did the Russians handle the other wounded in the same way? It is easy to accept and yet I cannot believe that so many thousands were simply left to starve!
Fall in! ‘We are now marching only to Stalingrad city,’ it is said. ‘Only another 8 kilometres.’ ‘We’ll have a roof over our heads tonight.’ The words whirl around. Some men have crept into out-of-the-way holes in the canyon of death in order to sleep protected from the cold. And it is good that the snow had shrouded most of the corpses in the ravine. Again come the tortured, painfully miserable sounds of the prisoners of war that all of us dread. It goes: ‘Forward, no matter how, even if it is on all fours. Only don’t stay behind!’ The last guards are not waiting, they have no desire to remain long and be well behind.
When one is at the end of one’s strength, then 8 kilometres may as well be 80 – it is all the same. We totter again along the road leading to Stalingrad past a couple of shot-down aircraft. Then come the first outlines of the city’s rubble, but how far away is it?
Our guards changed in Gumrak. However, these new ones are as sharp and inconsiderate as the old ones, perhaps worse, if that is possible. It is hard for us to remain as close together as the commander of the Red Army soldiers, a sergeant, wants. I suddenly take a blow on my back. It was this sergeant who had hit me with a thick stick. A tremendous rage of despair comes over me. I want to take this churl who has dared to assault me by the throat. Besides I had got my share of blows with sticks last night. But common sense holds me back. I am a prisoner now and, apart from that, exhausted. Tears roll down my cheeks unceasingly. It is just as well no one can see them in the dark. Every one of us has enough to do.
We have reached the city boundary. It has long since become dark. The guards do not know where to take us. We hobble in all directions through the ruined city. Finally it seems that something suitable has been found for us. We stop in front of the ruins of a building that must have been quite imposing once. Ah, there is a cellar and the first ones have already been driven in. The process is going only slowly. I suddenly hear a voice from home and see a young second-lieutenant in front of me. We establish that we do not live far from each other, this Second-Lieutenant Haferkamp from Mulheim an der Ruhr and I. Why are those below not going on? The cellar is already full. A Russian sentry bars the way down the steps, remaining standing at the cellar door and hitting those standing nearby with his rifle butt. We are already moving again with the pressure from those outside wanting to come in and fearing the rifle butt.
Franz and I have made it, we are inside. We do not know what happens next. We are only being pushed forward. There is a din that can only be made by those whose nerves are at an end and who lack a guiding hand.
What kind of cellar room is this? I sit down suddenly on a 200-litre drum and several other figures immediately sit down around me on the drum. This makes me think and I try to get away. Men are still pushing in from outside. Summoning all my strength, I am at last able to get further forward. Those affected release a torrent of swearing, but at last I have succeeded! I am sitting on a pile of rubble from a bomb crater that lies beyond the cellar in the next building. Where exactly I am sitting I am unable to tell as it is so dark. But this is the end. I cannot go any further. Nor can I go back, so I have to stay where I am already stuck. I sit on my bread bag with my knees drawn up. I call for Franz, but get no reply. He is further back. It is generally quieter here. The men are all too exhausted. Only now and then somebody shouts out and another one tries to stretch. I think I am dead tired. But there is no rest. It is as cold in here as it is outside, but the crush soon makes our limbs ache. I try to change my position but come into collision with someone else; I fall suddenly asleep from exhaustion, only to be soon woken up again by a kick. I do not know how long I was asleep. Pain from my pressed-together knees keeps me awake. Someone also overcome by sleep is lying on my feet. Even pulling my legs from under him does not wake him. By the door someone is already shouting; he cannot control himself any longer. But the pockmarked Usbek is inexorable. After a long time the guard commander arrives and allows five prisoners at a time to step outside. Thirst is tormenting us, but where is there water? One of us who speaks Russian negotiates with the guard commander. Finally he achieves that twenty men, led by a sentry, can collect water. I collect together five mess tins, plus mine, and once we have clambered through the mass of humanity we are outside to collect water. We pass through several streets of the ruined city that saw such bitter and incomparable fighting a few weeks ago. The guard stops to ask a sentry standing in front of a collapsed building where the watering point is and we are sent on for a few more streets. Then we ask again and are again sent further on. After marching about 3 kilometres through the city, nobody knowing exactly where, we finally come to the Volga.
Everyone who was still alive in the ‘City of Death’, surviving somehow in holes in the earth and hideouts that survived the tragic battle, gets their water here. Even military units living outside the city come here to tank up with water. We fill our mess tins at a hole hacked out of the ice with the liquid essential for life; we drink our stomachs full like cattle, knowing no limits in our greed. The water from the Volga is icy but I had never thought that water could taste so good. Once we have filled the mess tins, I look around a little. I want to see how the city looks from the Volga bank, and notice to my astonishment that I am quite close to the mouth of the Zariza River. It was here that I achieved my greatest military success as I thrust through to the western end of the city for the second time and broke through to the Volga. This is the third time that I am here at the mighty river, but this time as a prisoner of war fighting for his life. Strange feelings overcome me when I think back to that time. The journey back to the cellar goes much more quickly, having taken an hour and a half to get to the river.
Such a mean trick! My comrades are still stuck in the cellar. What luck that at least I was able to move about a bit instead of being crammed together in a dark hole.
The water is shared out. I reach for my bread bag and take a piece of dry bread in my hand, about a quarter of a whole slice. ‘Has one of the gentlemen taken four slices of bread from my bread bag?’ No answer. I speak directly to some comrades. No one has seen anything. So that is the thanks I get for fetching water for others. The thief was just considerate enough to leave a tiny piece in my bread bag. I simply cannot believe it. We are only officers here and nevertheless things are being stolen. How can it be? I will have to starve for the next two days because of the way the supply system works. It is only through luck that I still have a share of a cube of millet concentrate that another prisoner is looking after otherwise I would have nothing left.
My dark brooding is interrupted by a voice saying that a general baggage search is starting. Whoever has been searched has to go up to the yard. Now that should be jolly. There are still quite a number of prisoners who have watches, rings or various valuables that are very desirable items for the Russians. Some are now trying to hide these things wherever they can. Rings are put in the mouth, watches secured between the trouser legs; others wrap them in wool so that just a harmless knob remains. Everyone tries in his own way. I have nothing to hide as my pack is small. My wedding ring is sewn into my coat lapel. If it is discovered I will be unlucky. They will not take the comb, shaving kit and mirror.
All the cellar occupants are moving; everyone wants to be in front to see how the search goes. Eight Red Army soldiers take a prisoner each. The packs are quickly gone through and the Russians take whatever they like. It is done completely wilfully: sometimes they take pictures and tear them up, others they leave. Should the Russians find va
luables that have been specially concealed, the owner gets a beating for his troubles.
I am next in line. A Red Army soldier who honours his socialist country takes me on. He begins with the body search and finally rummages through my belongings. When there seems to be some confusion, I manage to save my pictures with a diversion. But he likes my comb that is in a leather case, and my mirror. He even takes my razor from me. Unfortunately I no longer have any blades as these were already taken from me at Kissel-Jakov.
Some prisoners outside are already sitting around a little fire, which they are carefully tending. They are melting snow so the last remains of the concentrated millet gruel can be cooked. From the two cellar windows come calls for known comrades. When they go to the window they are thrown something that the Russians would otherwise confiscate. It is a chancy business for if a guard sees them they risk a beating and a renewed search for the one caught.
Everywhere small groups are sitting around small fires. Others forage for wood, everyone being anxious to prepare something, even if it is only snow water.
It has already gone noon. Suddenly comes the order: ‘Fall in!’ A large proportion of the men are not ready to march off. It is pitiable. Everyone knows from the experience of the previous days what it means not to be with the big ones. Something quite outrageous happens. The Surgeon-Colonel, who had the trunk with instruments and medication that had been carried on sledges until now, is in the cellar where we had been, completely defeated. He had dared to try to prevent the Russians from taking the instruments from him. ‘I need them for my comrades!’ he had called out, believing that the Russians would recognise his immunity as a doctor. In response he received strong blows with rifle butts on his skull. He is lying in a corner with his skull beaten in. No one dared go to him!
We go on through the ruined city to the south. What a feeling for me! I had fought here in September and October, determined to take part in the conquest of the city that bore Stalin’s name. It was terrible how things turned out differently. Fortunately the whole German Wehrmacht has not come to an end!
If only the guards knew where we were, but we know better than they do. Now we are standing again at a crossroads and no guard knows which road to take. These stops are good for our weakest ones. But once again we continue on through the city that extends along the Volga for about 25–30 kilometres from north to south.
Women are driving camels pulling sledges past us. On these sledges lie the victims of the battle for Stalingrad. They lie there as stiff and as hard as wood, friend and enemy alike. It is a sad sight. The women look like phantoms from another world. Their faces reflect the horrors that must have occurred during the battle in the previous months. Now they are obliged to take the spoils of death out of the city. The animals, even those near death themselves, stretch their necks well ahead as if they want to flee from the loads behind them. I will never be able to forget this sight.
Darkness signals the approaching night and we are still within the city boundaries. As one says, it could be that we are going to Beketovka, which is still another 19 kilometres. Can we make it? Not before early morning. No, we are marching straight towards the big grain elevators near Stalingrad-South. We had fought a hard battle for them.
Our route is marked by packs of all kinds discarded by their owners as unnecessary ballast because of increasing weakness. I wonder why some had so many packs. With my two bread bags I have no need to throw away anything. In front of me a sapper, who had been very unfriendly until now, throws his pack away. We go past it without thinking, but after some time he realises that he had a packet of millet concentrate in it, but it is too late to turn back now. He will have to go hungry, along with the partner who was to share half of it.
It has long since become dark. It is coming up to midnight. If it goes on like this for many more days we can all count on our certain downfall. A large number already remain behind in Stalingrad.
Some weak lights come into view ahead of us. A deep breath passes through our ranks. It must be Beketovka. The lights come closer. But it is not Beketovka but a railway junction with several small wooden houses. Dear God, do we still have to go on? We simply cannot go any further. Rather here crammed in than lying out in the steppe snow and sleeping or perishing, but we must have a rest at any price!
Apparently there has been some discussion with the stationmaster, as we turn left off the road and totter towards the houses. Some stand still until we are finally driven into an empty one. We have to work things out as again, as in the cellar at Stalingrad, we have to lie on top of each other. Only sleep, sleep! The cries of the crazy ones do not disturb me; nor does my feet being clamped together as if in a vice. I look up once more. The dark blue sky can be seen through the partly destroyed roof.
Am I asleep or am I dreaming? A Russian with a torch has come into our room. Has he taken a comrade’s boots? Hit him? Go away dreams, let me rest, I want to sleep! Where am I, though? The noise from my comrades brings me back to reality. We already have to parade outside. Day has broken. One man is running about. He has no boots. He will have to march on without any footwear. Naturally he refuses. I would have done the same. The guard vanishes and returns after a few minutes with a pair of torn canvas shoes. Good or bad, the poor chap must be satisfied with them. As someone tells me, we are only 6 kilometres from Beketovka, where we are to be accommodated in a clubhouse.
IN THE BEKETOVKA CLUB
We have made it to Beketovka after an almost three-hour march. This time we have not been lied to. We are accommodated in a club. It is a hall about the size of a medium cinema. We sit or lie down at any angle on the floor, on the benches, on the tables, on the stage, under the stage and in some side rooms as far as they are accessible to us. There is not a space in the club that a prisoner is not lying in. It is still cramped, but in contrast to the previous days quite wonderful! We get some bread quite quickly too, and it is fresh bread. There is a round loaf for every seven men. But the craziest thing is that we get a piece of sausage! Real sausage! We are told that the sausage is goat meat. It looks like German Mettwurst, only somewhat thinner in size, but it tastes wonderful. I hear voices claiming that they have never tasted a better sausage. Oh hunger, where do you lead us? There is even a little sugar.
Franz and I have found a place in the left-hand aisle close to the stage. After the running around and the handing out of the rations, we looked for somewhere to sleep. Despite our great fatigue, it is impossible. Every time we fall asleep, along comes an idiot and trips over our feet, or even our body; we might think ourselves lucky he did not hit our heads. Franz looks shockingly bad. He lies there completely exhausted and hardly eats anything. It has been a great strain on him holding out until now. I can help him along if he will only eat. His stomach seems to have completely let him down, but he must do it. It cannot remain like this for ever.
We have already been five days in the club. The lice have almost eaten us up. The sanitary conditions are appalling, with shit lying around everywhere and smelling of putrefaction. There, where a prisoner of war had sat to perform the necessary, another goes to collect snow to thaw for drinking water. Leaving the building is controlled and only allowed at certain times, so it is impossible to get pure, clean snow.
The deaths of the first prisoners to die from natural causes, if one regards stomach typhus as natural, had already taken place. I carried out the first corpse myself. We had to take him to a room, strip him and pack his clothes. How can a person deteriorate so far? The dead consist literally only of skin and bones. Will we all end up this way? I recall the scene well and like other images I will not forget it. A mosaic picture comes together piece by piece. It is called: ‘The True Picture of Bolshevism.’
The men responsible for conducting the pack searches also belong to this mosaic. How many searches pass over us? And still they find something that appeals to them and is taken from us, as it is apparently forbidden for us to have such items. In fact these items find their way into th
e Russians’ pockets.
Today is the 1st of March 1943. We were woken up early and told to prepare to march off. It is said that we are going to be loaded up to get to a base camp, where everything will be better and we will live like normal people again. Most take this news with scepticism. We had been lied to so often during the few weeks of our captivity that it was all the same to us, but with diminishing bodily strength. The number of those who have been left along the way is not inconsiderable.
Now we have to parade in front of the club and the order comes: ‘All those feeling especially sick and who cannot undertake a long train journey step forward, including all sappers!’ Franz wants to step forward.