by Albert Holl
VIA THE MAIN CAMP FROM SELONI-DOLSK TO MUNI CAMP
Two days after our hearing came a final interrogation, and by the 4th of January Haber and I no longer had to go out to work. Instead, we were told to pack our bags. We were given leather shoes from a store and a day’s rations, and told to wait at the guardroom. After yet another thorough search of our baggage, we were led out.
The direction we took indicated that we were heading towards the main camp. This meant the punishment company. Now Rudi and I were also to join it. In view of the previous events, we have dropped the conventional formality and use the familiar Du for each other. We had known each other well for a long time and each of us felt that we had drawn even closer together through the recent events. Rudi was also a Stalingrader.
If only we did not have this damned waiting! We have been standing at the camp gate for quite a time. Ah, at last something is happening. A Russian appears, accompanied by a tall, lean Hungarian. I already know him. He is the camp senior. The administration of this camp lies in the hands of this Hungarian. To our great astonishment, the Hungarian says that we should report to the company commander of the German Work Company. Rudi and I look wide-eyed at each other. This means that we are considered as quite normal camp inmates.
My pleasure is great when I meet old friends and comrades here, such as Captain Wegener, Second-Lieutenant Mohr, and others. From Wegener I learn that Lieutenant-Colonels von Güldenfeld and Noffke are in the neighbouring barracks, in contrast to the other staff officers held under guard. How nice it is when one meets men who have proved themselves beyond reproach in the very worst of times.
The next morning we have to go out to work. It is the same thing everywhere: even if you arrive in the middle of the night you must go along with the others to the workplace. In this way I come down to the shipyard again. I can hardly understand how our factory could be so disorganised.
Ewald Korn, whom I knew from Block VI, comes to grief when a heavy iron block crushes both his legs. Fortunately no bones were broken. One thing I know for certain: during the war women worked in armament factories in Germany but not on the same scale as the ‘equal rights women’ here, who work the same hours as the men in the foundry and smithy. They do not make a pleasing sight in their dirty clothing. But youngsters too run about here in considerable numbers. Their heads are full of nonsense and they steal like ravens. When I pointed out to one of my comrades that a small fourteen-year-old lout was trying to steal his home-made pipe out of his trouser pocket, this hopeful Soviet youth threw a stone at my face in an unwatched moment. He was close to me and I was lucky that the stone did not go straight into my eye, but rather hit my lower cheekbone, which now hurts. Full of impotent anger, I curbed myself. There was nothing else I could do. Firstly I was too weak on my legs to be able to catch him, as he was faster than I was, and secondly his comrades would have stood by him if I had done what I wanted and given him a thorough beating. It is just like with the rats – one cannot do away with them!
8th January 1947. Within four days Rudolf Haber and I have experienced three camps. Yesterday evening we came with a task force from the main camp to the newly established Muni Camp, so-named as its inhabitants have to work in an ammunition factory.
During the war the factory had made munitions but it has now returned to peacetime production, which was why we had been moved from Camp 119/6 via the Main Camp 119 to Camp 119/5. Here I met more old acquaintances and friends from Block VI. A special treat was prepared for my arrival by Second-Lieutenant Breske, who gave me a large fish wrapped up in newspaper. He had smuggled it into the camp while unloading a railway wagon. Also, after a separation lasting almost ten months, I am once again back with my dear friend Otto Götz.
I left some good friends behind in Fournier Camp, but I met equally good friends here. And I remain only with comrades I knew before. Every unknown person is treated with caution, although the shared yoke of work causes joint complaining about the Russians.
From Captain Lieb I discover that Lieutenant Vogt, who was with me in Block VI, lost his life in a tragic manner. He was sitting with Lieb on a truck loaded with tree trunks that the Russians had not secured properly. On the slippery, snowy track the thick and heavy tree trunks rolled from side to side until one side of the cart collapsed and Vogt, who failed to react in time, was killed when the tree trunks rolled off. Lieb was able to jump off in time and escaped with shock.
I have found a good place to sleep next to my fellow-countryman, Captain Kribel. Every evening, lying on our beds, we had long chats about our lives and our home towns.
It gave us much pleasure having to work in the grounds of the Fournier Factory. Six days previously Haber and I had worked here from Camp 119/6, and now we were working here from Camp 119/5. Smiling, I told my friends from Camp 119/6 how the political worker Stratmann had had us moved to the punishment company.
We had to work not only on the slag heaps from the ammunition factory’s furnaces but also on the coal heap where we had to unload the coal and shovel it upwards stage by stage from platform to platform. We were given the most unlikely tools for this work. I saw lying in the factory grounds a large cable drum complete with cable from the Duisburg Cable Works – a greeting from home.
As the town of Seloni-Dolsk is cleared of snow again by the approach of spring, a team of ten prisoners of war has to report every morning to the town authorities. A guard from the town, armed with an old rifle, takes us from the camp. Now and then a Red Army soldier also escorts us. With crowbars, wooden snow shovels and spades, we have the honourable task of clearing the refuse pits and public toilets of their dirt and rubbish.
My team leader, who came from Jelabuga several days ago, is the NKVD informer Lobhoff, who had not survived two days in Block VI and was moved on at our recommendation. He appears to have fulfilled his task in Jelabuga. It makes me wonder whether he would not soon have a responsible position here. He has already had a chat with his old colleague Stratmann from Fournier Camp. At the moment he acts harmlessly and tries to do his share of work as a team leader.
We see some crazy things. The whole town lacks drainage and it is lucky that everything is frozen and in this condition can be easily carried off on the truck. I have my own outlook towards work and am not shy about it. It’s the same at home: if this kind of work is necessary, I do it immediately. But under these circumstances I find it doubly hard and difficult that the Russians treat officers of the German Wehrmacht like this. Unfortunately, some of the prisoners of war have lost their instincts for outrage. Hunger has reduced them so much that they take the frozen potatoes out of the worst filth and dirt to cook back in camp.
The dispute over the acceptance of the work performed is never-ending. If we do not achieve the amount of work set by the overseer, then he does not credit us with 100 per cent of the norm achieved and then we do not get the supplementary bread to go with it. Fortunately the allocation of bread here is not as precise as in Fournier Camp. Another, smaller advantage with this job is that at the end of the working day we do not have to stand around for another hour or more for a body search, which in the overwhelming cold is very unpleasant. Everyone who works in the factory has to submit to this daily.
I heard an outrageous story, which seems hardly believable, when I met some men who had been with me in the team company at Jelabuga in the summer of 1943. Corporal Jessen from the Aachen area told me that he, with more than two hundred men, had gone from Jelabuga in the summer of 1945 to a camp situated north of Kasan on an island in the Volga. Working conditions there were very bad and the food left much to be desired. The camp senior was Corporal van Alst, who, although he had sat in the prison at Jelabuga for almost two years and had been sentenced to death, had sold himself to the Russians. He had driven the men out to work with sticks, and, together with the Russian commandant, had stolen their food in such quantities that, when the ice froze in the spring of 1946 and the island was cut off from the rest of the world, there were so few
supplies left that for weeks on end the prisoners were given just a bowl of cabbage soup and hardly any bread. The work demands, however, remained the same and more than 120 men died from this inhuman handling and its results. That was in the winter of 1945/6. In my mind I saw again the amateur boxer from Emmerich as he staggered through our prison, lamed in both legs, then the faces of Sergeant Köhler and other acquaintances no longer alive.
The truth of this atrocity was confirmed by other comrades who had been in this camp with Jessen. The prisoners of war were unable to protect themselves from this inhuman treatment, while the Russians kept a protective hand over van Alst. Herefurth, who was here in the camp, also heard about it.
A glimpse of light in the misery is another birthday. With much love and care Karl Kriebel has arranged a birthday dish for me and I am deeply happy with the evidence of unity with my friends from Fournier Camp and from here. How they managed to get the packages from Fournier Camp to here is a puzzle. The greatest pleasure of the day for me was two poems by Kriebel and Schroeter. Kriebel’s poem was called Belief and Prayer:
I believe in Germany like a God,
even when the Devil is all over the world
preventing us from returning to our country.
I believe primarily in the right of our people in their
deepest distress that lightens the darkness with its light
and lets us find freedom one day.
I ask with my deeds, and still fight to win,
my life remains my duty and my prayer;
I serve!
I believe in Germany like a God,
because duty to and the love of my people in my
blood are the highest and holiest requirements!
Schroeter dedicated the following lines to me:
Time does not fly past! If the enemy also gnaws at you;
your heart cannot forget!
Your faith does not diminish! Even if the courage
within you wavers; your strength is not presumptuous!
The enemy gives the heart strength in your beliefs,
creating the courage of the brave!
Lohoff has done it! After some time in the main camp with the NKVD, he became the senior activist of the Anti-fascists. Now he is a colleague of Stratmann’s once more. His predecessor, an Austrian who had not felt comfortable in his role as senior activist and exceptionally is a decent person, was pleased with this change from his unpleasant task. We are less happy, as Lohoff has already prepared a list that he has given to the Russians for a Judas bribe.
FROM SELONI-DOLSK TO SAPOROSCHJE
A rumour is going around that a large transport for some four to six hundred men is coming from the south. The reason is unknown. Some suggest a move to Ukraine, the more optimistic suggest it is for the journey home. I would not be surprised at anything for the most improbable things are possible with the Russians. One prisoner of war once described this country as ‘a land of boundless impossibilities!’ Unfortunately this has only had a negative sense until now.
The transport is formed up from the various 119 camps. Those concerned are certainly connected through the NKVD with the Antifascists. Next to be released are the inconvenient elements. It is naturally quite clear that in our camp the former inhabitants of Block VI are to be included. So when we board the train I meet up with a whole number of old comrades, some even from the two Kasan camps. It is always a great pleasure to meet up again. After a protest we are again given greatcoats, for it is still very cold on this 15th day of April.
‘Herr’ Eichhorn has fallen on his feet again. Having done a short course in Kasan, he is now in charge of our transport. The Russians know already those who are particularly suitable for such things. To our surprise, however, we discover that the food is considerably better than that on previous transports. The day-long railway journey is a relief for us all and many express the wish that this journey would last until our release.
The train is heading in a south-westerly direction and until we reach Charkov all routes remain open for the journey home. Soon, however, those in the know realise that it can only go to Saporoschje.
We get there on the 28th of April. Once everything is unloaded, we are taken to Camp 7100/5. Already the catchword is: ‘Work in the Soviet Union is an honourable task for the German people! Put in all your strength for an increase in performance!’ This makes it quite clear what is expected of us. We will now join up with other teams and keep on working hard.
The camp band prepares for us a progressive reception. This recalls to mind the head count in Jelabuga in April 1946 as we had to go to our individual accommodation to the sound of German marches played by the camp band. Our tattered and ragged clothes, with matching footwear, are all that’s left of the once-immaculate uniforms of the German army.
There is also an old acquaintance of mine in Camp 7100/5, who has already graduated from the school in Moscow. The former Senior Paymaster Schmidt-Achat plays first violin here on the political stage.
With a great fanfare a message is read out, explaining that at the ministerial conference of the ‘Big Four’ in Moscow, a treaty was signed under which all German prisoners of war would be returned to their homelands by the 31st of December 1948 at the latest. For us this seems a very long time – twenty more months! – but at least we now have a firm date to look forward to. Apart from that, they cannot send us all home in December 1948. According to Soviet Union statements, there are still more than 840,000 German prisoners of war here.
I am pleased that some of us, including me, go to Camp 7100/1, where the main administration is located. With the Russians having moved all the less amenable prisoners out of Kasan, there is a crowd of us here who are not prepared to be led by the nose. From the first glance we realise that the majority of prisoners here are leading a miserable existence, which now, two years after the end of the war, is quite shocking.
It is really true that there is starvation in Ukraine. The people of Europe’s breadbasket are starving. We can therefore be happy to still get our daily ration of 600 grams of bread. Some of the civilians here do not get as much, as we can establish from our work. A loaf of bread costs more than 100 roubles and a bucket of potatoes 150 rubbles. Many of the workers have to sell their clothes and shoes to enable them to buy essential things to eat. They stand in long queues in the mornings and evenings outside the shops, and each receives only enough bread for himself.
I cannot comprehend family life in this country. If, for example, the husband is working on a machine harvester, the wife will be busy on the railway. So each has his or her own separate workplace and that is where they get their food. It is often the case that a husband and wife see each other only briefly when they are coming from or going to work because one has the day shift and the other the night shift. The children are mainly left to themselves – and it shows. The tone of the Ukrainians is mainly very friendly, however, quite in contrast to the propaganda.
Yesterday, the 29th of April, we arrived at Camp 7100/1 at noon and had no peace until late at night, and yet the Russian camp commandant ordered us to go to work next day. Unhappy voices complained, but it seemed all the same to me as I knew what I wanted to do. Therefore I was pleased when this morning none of us got up to go to work. Even the nervous ones dared not swim against the tide. An hour-long discussion with the camp commandant, Captain Kogan, failed to persuade us to go to work.
Eichhorn is not comfortable. However, he has to deal with the will of the majority, who prefer ‘Herr’ Bender, who likewise has gained some merit in his work with the League of German Officers, and has caught sight of an ambitious comrade craving recognition. Captain Krause of our group is also his rival, with all those standing behind him who have never signed a reconciliation resolution and see in him their suitable representative. Those of us who were removed from Kasan as so-called ‘black sheep’ are quite numerous here. Our aim is to be independent of the fulfilling of the norm for the food entitlement, especially bread. Unt
il now, the Russians have been very careful to provide the precise amount. We even get our cigarettes punctually, fifteen per day, while the teams only get five. I do not like seeing and knowing that we – in contrast to previously – get other rations than the troops. Our supplies are already insufficient, but the troops get even less!
After we had been working for several days in the ‘Bone mill’ brickworks, our group was sent to the oil factory. It is a pity when one sees how the poor troops were brought to the brickworks. The Russians had a good eye for dependable team leaders who managed the job without regard for their men.
When we first heard the words ‘oil factory’, we immediately connected it with oil cake and such, but this illusion vanished on our first day as the machinery here was built from an oil mill in Stettin. Did this also come from demilitarisation?
A special position was taken by the so-called ‘WK men’, or ‘Hiwi’ for short. Their leader in this camp is old Kahlbaum, formerly a hunting dog for Mangold when he was block senior of Isolation Block II at Jelabuga in the winter of 1943/4; he subsequently attended the Anti-fascist school in Moscow and is now the well-settled WK chief. The WK’s role is to replace the Red Army soldiers guarding us. There are still one or two Russians with them, acting as supervisors.
The head cook, Second-Lieutenant Rose, a depraved Russian servant, avoids with effort and difficulty (and through the intervention of an NKVD officer) getting a sound thrashing when he tries to discover the names of some comrades who had torn down a malicious poster from a tree and thrown it into the toilets.