by Albert Holl
In the room I met an icy silence that I inwardly enjoyed. Even at suppertime the food carriers refused to bring us our food, finally showing themselves as true Anti-fascists. Smiling, we fetched our own soup.
As we were leaving, someone whispered to me: ‘Watch out! You’re going to be beaten up tonight!’ That too! I had to laugh out loud. So the camp staff in combination with the Anti-fascists want to soften us up with all sorts of nasty tricks. The Russians sit in the background with the emigrants and grin at us.
It is very sad that former German officers should be misused for such tomfoolery! Just let them come! Before lying down I take my two wooden slippers and tuck them under the head end of my bed so that they are readily accessible. My neighbour, Lieutenant Theo Brach, a twelve-year man, says to me: ‘Captain, let them come!’ In a facetious tone I ask the two men on my left: ‘Do you two also want to arrange a free stay in the hospital?’ They seem uncertain, but it does not matter, they will wake me up!
Then the room political organiser, Second-Lieutenant Schulze, raises his voice: ‘Comrades, in our room are elements set against the general order of the camp. They refuse to work, which means that we should have to work for them! That is not acceptable! Today our food was held up for two hours later than usual because of this. In future these gentlemen will conform to the general will!’ I keep quiet. The lad knows quite well that every voluntary worker here takes the place of a Russian who can return to the front against our brothers who are still fighting. Above all, I sometimes doubt that I am among normal people. Almost daily I observe now, in the fast advance of the Allies, how these officers mutually congratulate themselves that their homeland will be freed by Soviet or other troops.
The month of May has begun. Until now I and my comrades have been able to avoid so-called camp work. With regret I discover that some old acquaintances who had been firm until now have begun to waver. At present the situation for our country grows worse every day. I myself no longer care to think over the situation but rather live from day to day, concentrating on my study of English. But is this situation sufficient grounds for breaking one’s oath of allegiance?
Yesterday, at the 1st of May celebration, the most active of the Anti-fascists, Hartmann, particularly distinguished himself in a celebratory pro-Communism speech. And this man had been a teacher and was allegedly an official in the Hitler Youth movement. But names such as Pickel, Lettau, Janeba and Seidel sound well in the camp activities of the League of German Officers!
My room senior brings me a request to come to the camp gate. I think that somebody wants something from me. Correct. At the camp gate stands the camp senior Wölfel, his monocle shining in the sun. I go up to him. ‘Herr’ Esch, former colonel and regimental commander, now Anti-fascist and commander of the Work Battalion, is standing beside him. ‘What do you want?’ I ask of Wölfel, standing in front of me. ‘You are to go to the Work Battalion in the garrison. Go through that gate!’ I laugh mockingly. ‘I do not think I will work, as I am not obliged to.’ ‘Crackpot!’ he replies in his nasal voice. ‘We will soon see! Go through!’ The deputy camp commandant, a major of Asiatic appearance, now steps forward and asks what the matter is. Someone translates something for him that I do not understand. I am the last one to step forward.
Next to me stand a Hungarian and a German. Once the leading man has marched off, we too should follow, but I remain standing still. The men alongside me get the order to bring me through by force. My look stops them. The Russian major then gives an order and two guards standing by the camp gate drag me with fists and kicks out of the camp. The gate closes immediately behind me. The guard commander draws his pistol and shouts: ‘March!’ I comply with his order as I know that his pistol has been used in other cases. Only a few days ago a prisoner of war was shot while working in the fields. The man hit was sitting with his comrades on the staked-out boundary having a rest. For no reason at all the guard fired at him as he sat on the ground. No one went to the help of the man writhing on the ground in his death throes. The soldiers saw nothing. When the news of this outrage reached the camp, Wölfel and the camp commandant Grusev were at the sports ground behind Block II watching a football game played by the camp experts, who were the only ones in the camp to play at sport. The game was not broken off, but something else occurred. Wölfel received the news of the incident like Grusev: he laughed.
I am assigned to cleaning the barrack yard, the Russian sergeant standing with a drawn pistol next to me, forcing me to work.
That evening the room senior brought me the news that I was to get up early in the morning to gather straw. The morning was rainy, the sky cloudy. When we were called, I stayed behind in the room. After a short time my company commander, ‘Herr’ Kehrhahn arrived and ordered me to go to the guardroom. I declined. Kehrhahn disappeared and returned a few minutes later with the commander of the Work Battalion, ‘Herr’ Esch. But Esch was also unsuccessful. Finally they fetched a Russian guard. The guard, an elderly man nicknamed ‘Hindenburg’ because he had a Wilhelmish moustache like the dead Reich’s President, said that I should get dressed. I had ignored Esch and Kehrhahn because they meant nothing to me, but I complied peaceably with the Russian’s orders.
Tearing off my old tunic, I pulled on my old, holey pullover before putting my tunic back on. Then I got my boots, grabbed my overcoat and pulled it on roughly, put my cap on and said ‘Ready’ to ‘Hindenburg’.
The old man set off with me following, and Esch and Kehrhahn behind me. The whole of the camp had already paraded in the back yard for the morning muster. Apparently they were waiting for me. ‘Hindenburg’ now went to a lock-up, unlocked it and then I was inside, standing in the dark. There was another person in the lock-up but I was not able to recognise him and I did not answer his curious questions.
Perhaps half an hour passed. Suddenly the lock-up was opened and a guard took me to the guardroom. There to receive me was Inspector Anissimov, whom I had known during my time in command of the Work Battalion. He asked me quietly why I had refused to work. Equally quietly I told him.
Through the gate leading to the town came the Asiatic-looking major. He recognised me immediately and asked the reason for my being there. When he heard the reason he told me, via the interpreter: ‘If you refuse, you will be forced to work at gunpoint!’ I answered: ‘If you are going to repeat the same scene as yesterday, then I will go, but I insist that I only go under pressure!’ In reply the interpreter stated: ‘You can think what you like.’ The guard took me to the others, who had already been waiting for me for over an hour. I said to Lieutenant Götz in a jovial manner: ‘They want to force me at gunpoint, but as I no longer let myself be in a position like yesterday, I will go under duress.’ The furious reply I got from the League of German Officers was: ‘Quite right! It would be better if you were put up against a wall!’ I gave him a contemptuous look and an ironic smile.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF GERMANY’S UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER AT NUNNERY CAMP IN JELABUGA
9th May 1945. At about 0900 hours the political officer came into our room and announced: ‘The whole camp is to parade! In a few minutes the Guards lieutenant-colonel will come and make an important announcement!’
What can this be? Here and there one hears rumours that the war has ended. The prisoners of war are pressed close together on the camp square in front of the home-made clay barrack that bears the proud name ‘Deutschlandhalle’. A rostrum adorned with the colours of the National Committee stands in front of the hall against the base of the wall. Right and left behind this are standing the senior activists and emigrants. The duty officer of the day reports as the camp commandant and his entire staff, including a woman in uniform, make their entrance.
Then the camp commandant occupies the speaker’s rostrum. In a manner we have experienced on numerous occasions, he begins with ‘Voina konshili!’ The interpreter translates. ‘The war is over! From tonight the weapons on all the fronts will fall silent. The Fascist conquerors and their criminal sys
tem have been smashed. The main role was that played by the Red Army under the leadership of the great Stalin.’
I did not believe my ears as I heard Kudriatschov’s words, followed by loud applause from the Anti-fascist side. What an insult! Here, former officers once thought of as the elite of the German people, are applauding the downfall of their own country! I wanted to sink into the ground for shame. Such a lack of dignity I would never have thought possible. Now began a new road of suffering for us. Our Wehrmacht beaten, our people lying helpless on the ground – being celebrated here with applause!
I looked around me and saw my comrades from Block VI were standing among the listeners with earnest faces full of incomprehension at the conduct of these former officers.
The Guards lieutenant-colonel had finished. Now the former Major Cranz took the rostrum. How could things have sunk so low! Cranz thanked the Red Army and the great Stalin for our liberation from Hitler’s yoke. His colleagues applauded again. This same Cranz had previously been a ministerial head of department in the Propaganda Ministry! If only I had had a pistol, this creature would not have lived another minute!
I went away, not listening to the end of this victory celebration. My thoughts flew back home to my people who had held out to the last minute and then had been denied victory. Now our enemies would trample on us and ensure that we got an even worse deal than we had with the Versailles peace treaty. Today I will avoid if possible all company and ensure that some of my comrades do the same. It is over for us now. Bolshevism, which until now always knew that we had the backing of the Wehrmacht to protect us, will show its true face.
The general situation runs through my head. To set myself against the Russians now would be absurd. If I continue to refuse to work, the Russians will have good reason to render me harmless. The Wehrmacht no longer exists, which means that my brothers are no longer fighting, so I can no longer be ashamed – except of myself. It now means that I can adopt the same tactics that the Communists did in Germany after 1933: stay silent and swim with the current, without giving anything away. I will not participate in rallies and such events any more. As always, politics means nothing to me. I was made a prisoner as a soldier and I will go back home again as a soldier, if God wills it! I will never return home any other way!
Chapter 3
A White Slave of the Twentieth Century
The unconditional surrender brought little change to the monotonous daily routine at the prison camp. The only sign of it was an increase in work activity. A few days ago most of Nunnery Camp prisoners were transferred to Kama Camp in order to make room for fresh prisoners of war from the Königsberg cauldron. Only a few proven activists remained to deal with their arrival at Nunnery Camp.
We went out daily from Kama Camp in great columns to the endless steppe lying west of the town. On our way to the workplace we had to pass the former Jelabuga cemetery. The graves had collapsed and the memorial stones fallen down, but trucks and farm carts drove over them through a scene that would have been regarded as holy by other people.
Our task is to dig up 100 square metres of the steppe every day. The intention was for 2,000 hectares to be dug up and planted with potatoes. Using the prisoners in shifts the area would be cultivated more quickly – or was that the view of the Russian camp administration? Every day fourteen men were yoked to a plough. As I was pulling it, along with my team neighbour, Lieutenant Francois, we discussed the advantages that slaves had in the Middle Ages and in Nero’s time in contrast to us. In ploughing, we had it better. We pulled the plough with only ten men, as it was lighter; apart from that, if our German supervisors were not watching closely, we could steal a few potatoes, which were then consumed raw. They tasted wonderful with salt, almost like an apple in the old days. Not every stomach was suited to this, several of us getting diarrhoea from eating a potato. My stomach is agreeable to this unusual taste and I have managed up to twenty potatoes in a morning!
In the first days a certain number of potatoes were pulled up and we could not go back to the camp until all the potatoes were in place. In order to establish our ‘norm’, several baskets were emptied in an unobserved moment and the potatoes buried in a heap. However, the Russians got wind of this and became infernally alert!
THE WOODLAND CAMP OF XILTAU (KOSILTAU)
Yesterday there was a search of the Ambulatorium and today we are to march to Xiltau Woodland Camp with eighty men. I am pleased that it is not Hilwig Woodland Camp, with whose ‘gentlemen’ I had come into conflict, apart from which the former Captain Rothe, the politician, and Büdenbinder, Minister of Labour, are there. There were unpleasant scenes.
The journey took place in the afternoon. It was 32 kilometres. As we went past Hilwig Camp we had to pick up a delousing wagon and a thick rope.
At first we went forward quite energetically, but with time our strength faded. Everyone had to carry a sack of straw as well as his pack, apart from those pulling the wagon. As we approached the first camp it was already nearly dark, but we went on. At midnight we came to a village in the woods. The guards themselves did not know the way. Finally it was agreed that we could sleep until dawn. Our supplies had long since run out and our stomachs were demanding food. God be thanked it was not cold, the June nights being mild.
The chill woke me up in the morning. My clothing was soaked with dew. I tried to warm myself by moving around. Finally we went on. After several hours of wandering around we came to the ferry. The Kama is about 600 metres wide here, flowing quietly and stolidly along. Wherever one looks, there are woods, nothing but woods. The near side bank is very steep. We have to wait a long time here. Klecha, a very young second-lieutenant who had his birthday two days ago, offers me a piece of bread, which I will have to return in kind. I take it thankfully as I have a powerful hunger.
Finally there is room for us on the small boat and we reach our destination. This will be our new working area. We have heard conflicting news about the place. Now we will soon be able to judge for ourselves. Behind the camp gate stands a man wearing the rank badges of a major. So that is Hermann! He is about 1.76 metres tall, with blond hair and a pale face with prominent cheekbones and blue eyes. His attitude is dismissive. No word comes from his lips. Even when we are in the camp he does not think it necessary to present himself.
Of my comrades from Block VI, I meet Knackstaedt, Keller, Sache and Pfeiffer. What one describes as accommodation here is fully occupied. There is a small wooden hut and a tent. All that is left for us is the hut attic and the yard. We are literally lying in the dirt. Even the bracken that we collected on our first tour of the woodlands cannot quite cover the dirt. The area is too small for the camp occupants. The kitchen stands in the middle of the yard and consists of two field kitchen kettles positioned in a square hole about one and half metres deep. The latrines are not six paces away. When it rains, the kitchen hands are fully occupied keeping the rainwater and dirt from falling into the kitchen.
Specialist Becker is the most active of the Anti-fascists. Becker was the sick attendant in Nunnery Camp during my episode of spotted fever, though I only saw him when food was being issued. So he has remained faithful to his line and may be called a true-blue ‘Kaschist’. People of his kind are dangerous for their deviousness. We had not possessed eating utensils for a long time – they were, and still are, valued items among the Russians, which is why the Russian camp staff in Jelabuga very soon slipped them out into the town – and eating implements were lacking at mealtimes at first. A few lucky ones still have their mess tins, but we newcomers own virtually nothing. Our mess tins had been taken from us months before in Jelabuga. As I got close someone said ‘Mess tins here!’ We could relax if someone we knew offered the use of his tin once he had eaten. Some food tins were completely rusted, yet the owner was still happy to have one at all. The dirt does not matter. Other tins have been laboriously cut, with inadequate tools, out of beech wood or husks. There are even not enough spoons to go around.
And what do
they give us to eat? In the morning we get our square tablets baked in clay and containing more water than flour, together with a piece of ham and our allocated 40 grams of sugar with a soup cooked on a tripod. We have to collect items for the soup on our daily expeditions, and it depends on the benevolence of the guard commander whether we can collect enough. Should we return to the camp at midday after an eight-hour journey, we get three-quarters of a litre of pea soup or barley broth, in which the whole of the pulses that we get per day is contained. Finally, in the evenings we get another tripod soup.
If there is no work to do, we can survive on this amount of food if necessary. But what work we are obliged to do! Immediately after the meals comes the order ‘Get ready!’ and the teams, each of ten men, assemble at their vehicles, small four-wheeled carts or two-wheelers with long shafts. They only have a wooden hub and some wooden axles. Eight men then go to the towropes left and right at the front. There are slings on them that go over the right or left shoulder, so that there are eight prisoners of war pulling on either side. With time, however, another way of pulling the wagons develops in which there are two wooden rails with two men pulling them, holding the rail either in front of their stomachs or behind their backs.
Many prisoners of war know this kind of work from the main camp, having had to haul wood in the same kind of carts from the woods 23 kilometres away. Once the guard commander has counted us, he gives the order to fall in. The leading cart sets off and soon we reach the village where the exiles live; these former Tsarist officers and officials do forestry work here on the Kama. The wood loading place is 10 to 12 kilometres distant and the journey takes two or three hours. Fortunately the carts are empty on the outward journey as the road steadily climbs; this makes it easier on the return, but the generally poor state of the road impedes us considerably. Between sixteen and twenty-two carts daily make their way one behind the other in a long train, which is visible at many points along the route.