by Albert Holl
‘Don’t you feel in a position to make a long journey, Franz?’
‘No, Bert, it is no use me going along. Hopefully they will put us in a hospital and there I should get something else to eat. I’m going in the wagon.’
‘Think it over, Franz. You don’t know where you will go, and here are most of the group!’
He looked at me with his blue eyes, and said: ‘Bert, I can’t take any more!’
‘Then live well, old friend. Get well and come back soon!’ I shook his hand, having the feeling that I would never see him again in this world.
Our marching group was already drawn up so I have to hurry as I do not want to get separated from the strong ones. I wave to Franz once more, one last look, and then I go after the others at the double.
FROM BEKETOVKA TO KISSNER
We have reached the railway line and there stands our train already. We are not the first to be loaded. Most of the wagons are already packed full of people coming from the transit camps around Beketovka. After some standing around we are loaded aboard. Those of the same rank are put together. In our wagon are the remaining staff officers, majors, captains and a few lieutenants. It is a small 20-ton wagon into which forty-five prisoners have been thrust. In the other wagons are also so many prisoners, we are told, and already the wagon door has been secured. The staff officers have tried to set up their places on one side, on the other side are the captains. The remainder – some lieutenants – are trying out the middle of the wagon. It is crowded, the wagon is too small for everyone, and by the door it is bitterly cold. The train has long since set off for an unknown destination.
There is a stove in the middle of the wagon. Wood is available, but how can one cut down these thick planks? We have long had no knives. They were prized items for the Red Army soldiers and forbidden to us as prisoners of war. A flat piece of iron is fastened to one plank. If we can get it off we can use it to chop the wood. Following some exhausting work we are able to get the piece of iron loose. With it we can now reduce the size of the wood and get some heat. Although it is an exhausting task with only wet wood to heat the stove, it works! If one stands close enough to the oven door one can warm oneself a little.
My place must be the worst in the wagon. It is directly by the door to the toilet. The toilet consists of two right-angled planks that form a gutter, and this gutter sticks through a hole in the wagon door directly above the floor, the other end leading outside. It is unpleasant all day, day and night in fact, lying there right next to it. But what can I do? There is no free space! I am also not warm, as the stove burns so weakly that I cannot warm myself up. The tablecloth that someone gave me a few days ago at the Beketovka Club is practically useless at keeping me warm. I really must see about getting myself another place or I will catch my death of cold. My belly has already become cold, and I have to pass water much more often than before. My comrades are also not well. Many have diarrhoea. One problem is thirst. Only seldom, far too seldom, do we get something to drink. And straight after eating the dry bread we get such a thirst! With my mess tin, which is fastened to me with various straps and cords, the person sitting on the upper plank bed tries to collect snow during the journey. No one looks to see if the snow is clean, as how can it be clean right next to the railway line with oil, rust and various rubbish? Everyone yearns for water! Even bread is being offered in return for snow water. When the Russians hand in a bucket of water no one asks where the water came from, we are so desperate to quench our thirst. Moss or mud is of no consequence.
After the thirst that torments us most of all, there are two other factors of about the same priority: lice and hunger. As we lack water to drink, we cannot think about washing, and shaving is also impossible. I feel more ill than ever before, sticky with dirt and disgusted with myself. In my dreams – even with open eyes – I concern myself most with the sumptuous meals that we had been offered in the past, especially one dish of sauerkraut with pigs’ knuckles and mashed potatoes accompanied by a large glass of beer that pleased me. But these sweet hallucinations failed to satisfy one so long hungry. It was the same with my comrades. I noticed it in the conversations that often followed this theme for hours.
Our state of health became more doubtful from day to day. If I had not been so dulled, I would have been disgusted with the pictures that I had to see. Now and then some blocks of wood were thrown into the wagon and some stalwart would split them up with the piece of iron. The burning material is insufficient to keep the stove alight constantly, so it remains mainly cold. We get food very irregularly, but once a day there is something warm. If we are unlucky we are forgotten and have to wait until the next day. Where we are exactly, and in what direction we are going, I cannot say. The people up at the window are of the opinion that we have crossed the Pensa and already have the Volga behind us. But where would our destination be? The Urals? Siberia? The route we are taking leads there!
The train has been stopped for a considerable time when suddenly the wagon door is opened. The light from a lamp shines in. Several people can be seen outside, including women. They are wearing fur coats and felt boots. An interpreter asks: ‘Are there any seriously ill in the wagon?’ No one responds as we are all mistrustful. ‘You needn’t worry. The sick ones will go a hospital that is quite near.’ Three men step forward, then a fourth. ‘Now you go too, quietly, Herr Nudin, you squat on the toilet all day.’ The man spoken to, a captain about 45 years old, who is fully run down and whose eyes show his insanity, bristles. He is already the sickest man here in the wagon. I too want to get out, to go with a woman in a dark coat, but a man who has just arrived says something to her and I am sent back. I have had diarrhoea for days, my teeth are chattering with the cold and I feel that I have a high fever. A wild despair comes over me: ‘Will people let me perish here?’ Did I shout it or think it? I do not know. No, it cannot be! I must fight for my life to the end. Then it will be easier. I had hardly expected captivity at first, rather ignored the consequences. I lie on my space and ponder until, despite the cold, sleep catches up with me and leads me out of the present into another country.
A THIRD MARCH OF DEATH
Where are we now? On the station I can see some letters that I am unable to read. An interpreter, who had brought us something to eat, says that we are standing at Kissner station and that we will be unloaded here as this is the terminus. But how much longer are we going to wait? Today is the 11th of March 1943. We have already been here more than a day. There is talk that we still have to make a four-day march to reach the so-called base camp. When I think of my physical state and consider my comrades, all seems hopeless. The distance from here to Jelabuga, as the place is called, is 80 kilometres. No one can make it! If only it had already been done!
The 12th of March has broken. It is a winter day, like all the others, grey, cloudy, misty. The doors are suddenly opened. After nearly two weeks we are able to get out of this cattle wagon again. Most of us stumble the first steps like drunks, partly from weakness, partly from lying in the wagon. The familiar exercise begins again: ‘Fall in and count off!’
We are ready, and the long mixed column of prisoners of war gets moving. The ranks are already strongly reduced. I now discover that on the way from Beketovka to here about two hundred prisoners have died. They were unloaded at the railway stations on the way. The very sick were taken off in Arak, the last big station from here. We are all sick. I too have a constant fever and am happy that my diarrhoea is not as bad as others’. In the overwhelming cold – it is about 25 to 30 degrees below freezing – there is no pleasure in dropping one’s pants and pulling them up again. In no time at all one’s hands are stiff and unable to fasten the buttons properly, and only with the help of others can one stand up properly again. The expenditure of strength in this borders on extravagance.
We have long since left Kissner station behind us. It is already midday. The sky has cleared. We go forward only slowly. There is no longer a recognisable marching column. How can i
t be otherwise with such a debilitated group? The road is mostly so narrow that we can only proceed in pairs. The last ones find it particularly difficult. They are the furthest back and are constantly being driven on by the guards with their sticks and rifle butts. Among them a Jewish prisoner of war called Grünpeter is very actively involved. Grünpeter is from Upper Silesia. At the outbreak of war he was in Russian service but was captured by the Wehrmacht and employed as an interpreter, and has now become a so-called German soldier in Russian captivity. He is frequently used by the Red Army soldiers and by us Germans as an interpreter.
If the guards are no longer shooting, the blows that they dish out are no less effective. With the column spread out over several kilometres, in late evening we reach our first objective more dead than alive. It is a small dilapidated village. We spend the night in the narrowest room of a cottage. Time seems to fly, and in no time the night is over. I am still numb when we march off again. The way through the villages is especially difficult for us. Here the wind has blown together metre-high snowdrifts around cottages and fences, which we now have to go around in truly sinuous lines. Anyone who tries to take a shortcut over such a snowdrift finds himself up to his stomach in snow and has to make his way back and take a longer route.
For a long time now most of the men have abandoned anywhere along the track their back packs, which had become pointless ballast. Our physical strength is simply insufficient to take them along. The land here looks as if it is dead. Very seldom do we see people or a sledge coming towards us. And even where the way takes us through a widely spread-out community, there is no one to be seen. Most of the way the route runs endlessly between wooden posts standing to the left and right of the road. It is just as well that such a still frost reigns! It would be a real catastrophe for us if the wind was blowing to worsen everyone’s misery over the open ground.
For hours now the guards have given up beating us with their sticks. They are content that we are still moving forward. One guard leads the front and shows the way, another brings up the rear. The guards commander has obtained some skis for himself and travels back and forth between the head and the tail. The column, so hard hit by fate, is widely spread out. Several men fall unconscious along the way. Friends try to help these unfortunate ones. I crawl on, having enough to do looking after myself, and I do not know what will happen to these men. Only when nothing else will do, do I take a few steps to the side.
The whole thing seems to me like a feverish hallucination. My head is fit to burst. And yet I have to go on, not daring to give up. I maintain a connection with the fellow sufferers who have been with me since the first days. They are marching somewhere in the middle of this column of misery. We have already put about 25 kilometres behind us. How many of my comrades remain on the roadside, I cannot say. As I enter the village that is to accommodate us tonight, they are still not all there. It is already getting dark. All that matters is getting a place, no matter where, to sleep. Even hunger is of lesser significance than the constant thirst.
I have already lain down, for the night will soon be over. Only reluctantly can I convince myself that it is so. My feet are burning, my body hurts as if it were exhausted, my head is feverish. The guards and some personnel from the Russian camp directorate have come from the main camp to try to console us. The journey today will be quite short, only 13 kilometres! The first stretch goes all right, but soon we have the same picture as yesterday, only many more men have collapsed, simply unable to continue. The Russians now make arrangements to pick up the worst cases from the road and take them to the nearest destination with small panje sledges. As I hear, a large number have died in the last three days.
A tall, gaunt Russian appears. He is said to be a lieutenant-colonel and commandant of the camp that we are going to. Accompanying him are two persons, one of whom is a doctor. They go through the rooms to which we were brought after some standing around and look at the misery. The doctor has the worst cases laid apart from the rest. In the morning the weakest will be sorted out and those who want to rest here for another day can report themselves. The remainder will continue the march. We are told that this is the last stage of about 22 kilometres. Everything is prepared for our arrival at the camp. It will be better there and we will be able to live like human beings again.
I stay with those marching on. The goal is in sight and I will not waste a minute to delay reaching it. Once more it is a case of mustering all our strength not to weaken too soon. Everyone marching on today makes better progress, but despite everything the way today seems absolutely endless. When we climb a hill, another one comes into sight in the distance. Otherwise there is hardly any change in the landscape, only the glittering snow.
The weakly penetrating disc of the sun shows that midday has long since passed and we are still unable to see a town. An old motherly person comes out towards us, stops on the roadside and hands out sunflower seeds. She gives ten or twelve with an outstretched hand to those passing. Her face tells us without a word how she feels for us.
As soon as she had given me some seeds she was chased away by the guards with loud complaints. The old woman remains on my mind. So there are good people here too – the old woman has made that clear to me.
THE MONASTERY CAMP AT JELABUGA
The saving call comes from up ahead. Jelabuga is in sight! We breathe out! Now we too can see it. Nevertheless our road goes on for about 4 kilometres more, gradually dropping down to the town. But at least we have our goal in sight! We can take our last break with the town at our feet. Everyone tries to spot the camp, but it is impossible. Is it there by the church? Close together stand three large old churches built in the Byzantine style. Or is it the large, dark red stone building that looks like a castle? Then there are some long white buildings to be seen right forward on the edge of the town. We will soon make it now. Hopefully, it is not too far!
Some of us have reached the first wooden houses on the edge of the town. The roads here are wider that those outside the town. The leaders turn left. After a few hundred metres we are standing in front of a long four-metre-high wall. Along the wall is a strip of ground five metres wide encircled with barbed wire. Wooden watch towers occupied by guards stand at the corners of the wall. We wander along the wall until we come to a great wooden door on the southern side.
Meanwhile some have already discovered that the camp is a former nunnery and that the buildings inside are of stone. I still cannot take all this in. The walls and door conceal from our eyes what is beyond them.
Finally we are paraded and counted into the camp. It is full of heaps of snow that have been shovelled together over the course of the winter. My gaze wanders around. The buildings are really of stone. I count four of them grouped around a large square. What else the camp consists of I cannot see as we are directly led into the building opposite the gate. We are told that we will all be accommodated here temporarily until we have been deloused. I don’t care, I just want to lie down and sleep.
The entrance to the building is very low. Tall men have to duck when entering. Then comes a dark passage, then another door that leads to a long, dark corridor. There are doors to the left and right giving access to individual rooms. It ends in a large room that one could almost call a hall. I walk straight past a door that has a glass pane in it. There must have been Germans here once as behind the glass hangs a notice in German script: ‘Repairs only on Tuesdays and Thursdays’! I wonder if the notice stems from the First World War?
God be praised, we have our place right in front of the hall, which is already full of people, so we are taken to a small room that is now accommodating sixteen persons. We all lie down there with our heads to the wall, feet together, lifeless bundles!
In due course all our lice come to life. As long as we were marching outside in the cold winter air they hardly moved themselves, but now they become an unbearable plague again and do not let us rest like in the railway wagon or the other accommodation. Soon we are all sitting there se
arching for the damned things! The woollen items are especially full of nits and there is hardly a stitch in our clothing where their small pin-sized eggs cannot be seen. The so long yearned-for sleep cannot come as long as these animals torment us! We strip down to our shirts and then there is not one man who is not bitten and scratched all over his body. We have to scratch ourselves again and again even though we do not want to. It is enough to make one despair. Our only comfort is the coming delousing. It has already been started. Unfortunately the banja, as the Russians call it, is very small and each delousing takes 45 minutes. Nevertheless, it will be our turn in due course, but the sooner the better. We will certainly not get through it today, as they started with the hall and it will be a long while before all its occupants have been dealt with.
The night passes seemingly endlessly with groans and swearing, scratching and hunting for lice. I am now as shattered as on the previous day but, and this is the main thing, I don’t need to march any further, I will be deloused today and will be able to shave and take a bath. When I consider the state of my comrades and myself, I could be disgusted. We are all covered in dirt and can hardly recognise each other under our long beards. We have been unable to shave for an average of two to three weeks.
The day crawls along and ever more men are called forward for delousing. But not us. We soon discover the reason. The second marching column has arrived with the seriously ill, who were immediately taken to start the delousing treatment so that they do not have to go into temporary accommodation. Obviously it is a bitter pill for us. We arrived yesterday, on the 16th of March and will not be deloused until tomorrow.