After Stalingrad

by Albert Holl

  Now the accommodation problem in the camp has increased. As the result of a short circuit, a whole barrack block was burnt to the ground. A fire engine appeared but it was too late. As it is already November, the men are unable to sleep in tents and must join the others in the other barrack blocks.

  Eichhorn has done it again! Despite his declaration that he would ‘no more lead a blind Red Army man to the shithouse!’, he is now the head of the WK. Now, without a guard, he himself guards the Germans for the Russians, and feels himself well off with this. He has quite clearly recognised that the responsibility here is much lighter than that with the brickworks, mortar or iron sections.

  The NKVD spy Lukviel tries to provoke us. The result was a sound thrashing, which deformed his plump face for a while. Selmer, Götz, Korff, Fischer and I were put in the dark lock-up for this. There we found Sergeant Westerheide from Bielefeld, who was accused of slaughtering a cow during the war and today was condemned by the war tribunal to fifteen years’ hard labour. He is waiting for his transport to prison.

  Christmas is coming. This time it will be a Christmas that with regard to the provisions will be better than the last few. Each of us saves a contribution of 6 roubles for the festival, but the festival tree is also to be made. As we are unable to acquire any fir or other greenery, we manage here with thin sheets of iron, the angel’s hair being made out of glass wool. Fritz gets some clean beeswax to be poured into candles; Günter makes an Advent cross out of tin and hammers out an artistic brass lamp in his spare time. It is good to see how all those taking part do so with zeal, revealing their youthful hearts.

  The First Advent is in the afternoon break under the motto ‘Mother and Son’. With simple words framed by the appropriate pre-Christmas poems, and with the appropriate songs, we thank the people who gave us life: our mothers.

  The days to the Second Advent fly past. It takes as its subject ‘Our favourite people’. We think of our wives or our dearest ones. Goethe and Rilke give us resounding songs of love. How different this Advent is to the previous three years! Today we are undisturbed, as no one apart from the eight of us knows about it. We have been fighting for our lives for three years. Heartfelt thoughts of home with poems by Maria Wiedermann, Brüger, Eichendorff and Goethe make the Third Advent a worthy occasion, while on the Fourth Advent tales of Christmas customs prepare us for the forthcoming Christmas festival.

  And now it is here: Christmas Eve, 1947. We all hope and wish that it will be our last one in captivity. The indications are there for it. Happy and full of confidence, we celebrate the most German of all festivals. The Christmas stories are recounted, the Christmas songs ring out; Fritz Laschtowitz gives an account of a Christmas celebration in the Glatzer Bergland, and Siegfried Korff describes a Christmas celebration in Hamburg.

  My comrades have lain down to rest, but I am sitting at the table. The little lamp is burning. The loudspeaker that we were able to hire for two days is relaying a Christmas transmission from Leipzig. My thoughts are at home with my little wife. My pen scratches over the Red Cross card, seeking to express my feelings in words to my dearest one who has waited so long for my return. I was taken prisoner only six months after we had become man and wife before God and the world. And yet nothing is able to separate us, not even the vast distance! Our souls are as united as they always were, which is only possible in the knowledge of our absolute trust in each other.

  I am called back to reality as the sound of church bells rings out here in this godforsaken land. My soul vibrates: how long has it been since I heard the sound of the bells? I cannot hold back my stream of tears any longer. Unobserved, I let all my feelings flow. All the bitterness of the past years flows in the tears from my soul. I know that I would not have come to this state if I had not been sitting here alone. The children’s voices of the Thomaner Choir seem like angels’ voices from another world. I pray: ‘Father, give us all a reunion soon with our loved ones back home. Protect our poor country from even greater distress. Give me back my strength so that I as a German can go free and upright through life!’

  On New Year’s Eve we shake hands: ‘I wish you all the best in 1948 and the return home’. The banner that hangs in the corner in front of the light bulb reads ‘Welcome 1948, the year of our return home!’ But doubtful thoughts depress me. Certainly the experience of our imprisonment so far justifies these doubts now, but are not the Foreign Ministers of America, England and France guarantors for the observance of this agreement? Has not Soviet propaganda also stressed so far that Soviet Russia has never broken a treaty! So silence your black thoughts, Russia too must stick to this agreement!

  Fritz has even been able to acquire a half-litre of vodka in exchange for a really artistic bit of carpentry he made in his spare time. It is the second time in years that I have been able to drink a little alcohol. After we had toasted the homeland with a few short words, through which our hopes for returning home this year resounded, we spent the first hours of the year in happy festivity, determined to forget our surroundings. Franz has made a colourful hat for each of us and, as a special surprise, characterised each individual with an appropriate verse.

  There was a happy confident atmosphere in the whole camp that day, the reason being the hope of returning home this year. Even the leading Anti-fascists were confident about it. One particular pessimist was Karl Schnurawa, who worked as a bookkeeper in the factory and whose chief was an old Communist. In a talkative moment the latter had told him that Karl should not fool himself: Russia would hold on to the prisoners of war until 1950 for restoration purposes. We tried to get him to refute this pessimistic outlook.

  THE SAWOD KOMUNAR

  Our workplace has now been moved into the factory. For several days now we have been marching the 2 kilometres there every morning with the other five hundred men. The assembly is gathered half an hour before the escort appears at the guardroom. Meanwhile we stand about in the cold and talk about the camp’s facilities. We also talk about the news in the German newspapers from the Soviet Zone. General mirth breaks out with the news that a ‘House of Soviet Union Culture’ is to be built in the eastern sector of Berlin. The performances now taking place there are followed with interest. A wonderful comparison can be drawn between the circus being played out there and the reality that we endure daily. There, like here, the talk is about the main thing that is lacking: culture! We are presented with illustrations of how the people of this country share with our brothers and sisters in the eastern sector their charming ‘Jibit paschu mat’, and how during their meals they ‘elegantly’ spit on the ground.

  When the escort appears, the gate is opened and three or four men count us through the gate. Often one of them miscounts and we have to go back and be recounted in front of the camp. This compares with the winter in Seloni-Dolsk when the count never lasted less than an hour, but still went well. Then began the slippery march down the kilometre-long hill. As we are all wearing extremely ‘advanced’ boots, we can hardly keep upright and go through the craziest contortions. The best solution is still linking arms. So Ottel and I or Fritz and I go arm in arm until we reach level ground again. The march is strenuous over the ice. We are counted once more in the factory. Meanwhile ‘Herr’ Eichhorn’s ‘Hiwis’ take up their sentry posts and finally the teams can go to their work places.

  The combine harvester factory is in two parts. Our team works in the big assembly plant on the right side of the factory. About 200 men work on the other side. Along the street are signs pointing to the right and left. Our plumbing team, which is the factory’s premier unit and has the best earnings, works undisturbed by the locals in a fenced-off area. There is much theft here, despite the strong controls, and we have to keep a sharp eye on our tools. It is very interesting seeing the local residents and the way they work. I am convinced that a large proportion of these male and female workers have no other clothing than their work clothes. These are full of grease, dirt and stains, and if one looks at their braces closely, one
gets the impression that they have not undressed for weeks. I have looked for a washroom without success so far. We give ourselves a brief wash under a hosepipe in the hall. The toilet is an old dilapidated wooden hut, where the men crouch on one side and the women on the other. As the pits are soon full because of the frost, the workers squat down anywhere around, and one can come across these ‘anti-personnel mines’ everywhere. But it doesn’t stop there. For days we have been regularly finding piles of shit on the workbenches or in any part of the workplace. These can only be from the Russian night shift staff who know that prisoners of war work here. We mark these places with signs like ‘Watch out, mines!’ and so on. Since the youths of this ‘most advanced land on earth’ were ready to bring these deeds of heroism to our workbenches, Lowag called upon the chief to pay the bill. He vanished with some standard Russian swear words on his lips. Shortly afterwards three old women appeared and cleared up the mess. We had no more problems with this.

  There was plenty to see on the way to and from work. Already before seven o’clock in the morning men were standing in long queues in front of the shops to collect their allocation of bread. They must have been standing here already for some time. Many went to work straight from here, often without having got any bread as there was not enough. With lots of laughter we read in the Täglichen Rundschau an article by a Russian professor, who depicted in shimmering colours the advantages of the Soviet system, and said, among other things, that ‘There is no standing in queues in front of food shops, but one sees long lines of people in front of the theatres, cinemas and museums.’ When we go past a bread shop in which the people are fighting over places in the queue, some wit in the column always calls out: ‘Look, there’s another queue for a museum!’ There is begging here, too, but I think much more is stolen.

  Yesterday on the way back to the camp I saw a small tattered youth sitting begging. He had a baby on his lap. To increase his takings, he hit the baby again and again on his behind, thus pretending he wanted to quieten him. Naturally the opposite was achieved, the little chap shrieking blue murder.

  Often when we return to camp schoolboys are playing games in the grounds of the school near our camp. Instead of balls, here they throw dummy hand-grenades. Whether boy or girl, these little Soviet citizens are being brought up in a military manner that reminds one strongly of the Prussian parade grounds. The referee is a young female teacher.

  Our midday meal is brought to the factory in two large casks. I always get soup and porridge in a Romanian mess tin that I have obtained somehow. Despite being called porridge, the food is very thin and if it were not for our wages every month, we would write here the word hunger in large letters. Not all get paid as much as we do, however, and those poor chaps have to starve. Whenever possible we try to help them. Unfortunately it is like a drop of water on a hot stone.

  Kaiser has managed it – he has taken over Mindak’s job! In his stupidity, coupled with his lack of scruples, he blindly follows all the orders of his Russian controllers. He came to the camp in tattered clothing, but now has all the clothing he needs for his role.

  Although the postal censorship is strict, I get more post than most. Even so, I only receive about a third of the letters sent to me, as I can clearly tell from the content. I derive particular happiness from the little pictures my wife attaches to the Red Cross cards. Again and again I pull them out in my free moments and then in my thoughts I am home again. My friends are also pleased with these pictures from the homeland. Today two parcels arrived in the camp. One of the recipients had to go to the NKVD, where he was told to pay customs duty that was so much he was not able to afford it.

  It is quite laughable what the Russians put up with in a way. Some prisoners of war who were permitted to leave the camp without supervision were in the bazaar where they saw Red Cross packets bearing the English words ‘Only for prisoners of war in the Soviet Union’. They were offered for sale at prices from 30 to 60 roubles. The International Red Cross had also sent us packets of a kind we had never seen before. It would have been wonderful if we prisoners of war had received these packets.

  Tired, I sit at the small table that we constructed ourselves. The day has been very strenuous. Yesterday we had all been inoculated, ostensibly against stomach typhus. There were only a few needles available, but they were already blunt and caused pain. Although we had fever, which hit most of the camp, we still had to go out to work, although we could hardly move for pain.

  At the beginning of the warm part of the year we had moved out of the Heroes’ Cellar into the new building. After months in the cellar we now had daylight and sunshine in our accommodation again. I was dozing with my head on the table top when a knocking at the door made me look up. The office runner handed me a letter which said I was to report to the Joram group at the Gorodok in the morning. I wondered about this as it meant work, and in terms of duties probably a considerable worsening. From my enquiries I established that Kaiser had arranged this transfer. The reason for it was a small picture that I received from home of me wearing a steel helmet during my time as a recruit. Now they can harass me with such things. Eichhorn’s friend Werner took my place.

  Now I eke out my existence as an assistant in a carpentry unit. Fortunately I was able to remain in the accommodation with my friends. It would have been much worse if I had had to leave them. I got on quite well with my new work colleagues until a presumptuous foreman, Joram, an immature young man, provoked me into taking up an energetic position against him. He was cheating some of the men in his group of their money.

  Now I am a member of the Walish Team, which shortly afterwards became the Thalmeier Team. My place of work is again the factory. Here we come under Kupill, a former major in the Red Army and now the director of the reconstruction. Through the manipulation of Thalmeier, who is a clever Bajoware and likes to complain, we get a few roubles every month. From knocking down ruined walls to making hole presses, scrap loaders and wooden trays and sweeping up debris with factory brooms, we do all the jobs that come to us. The pay is very little and without cheating we would not get a single rouble in a month. My close work comrades here are Heinz Selzer, Reinhold Dönges and Fritz Neubauer.

  In a quiet hour Reinhold tells me of an experience he had in the winter of 1945 that illustrates the inhumanity of the Russians and the creatures that work for them. The Russians had discovered that some prisoners of war in the camp still had watches, fountain pens and such things. An informant, who had told the camp senior that he was an ethnic German called Otto, reported that Reinhold had thrown a watch into the toilet so that the Russians would not get it. Reinhold then had to go before the Russians, where he was interrogated and put in the lock-up. Fully stripped apart from some old, torn Russian trousers and tattered gym shoes that Otto had thrown at him, he had to spend that night in the hole in the ground. The next day Otto forced him to go down into the toilet ditch and spend the whole day looking for watches and other valuable items. Dönges resisted at first but was then forced with blows from the NKVD officers and Otto to comply. As he had not found anything in the toilet ditch in which he had worked all day, he was locked up again. There he reached the end of his tether and was in such a condition that he bit through Otto’s throat when he came alone within range. Eventually the German doctor took him out of the dungeon and nourished him back to health. I could understand the grim thoughts of revenge that Reinhold harboured towards Otto.

  Few transports have left for home until now. We attentively follow the numbers shown in the newspaper. The pessimists are increasing. It is now almost impossible to send all the prisoners of war home before the end of the year without putting too much strain on the transport system, with serious consequences for the economy.

  I had put aside my learning of the Russian language until now. It is clear to me that if Russia does not adhere to the Moscow agreement and does not send us home by the end of the year, we will be here for at least another year. Thoughts of escape still come to me. If I c
ould get to Odessa and swim out to a foreign ship, I had a chance of success. I could make myself understood by the sailors in English. But to get through Russia to Odessa, I must at least have some elementary grasp of the Russian language.

  So, on the 1st of September, I began the systematic learning of the Russian language. It is not easy, learning how to write and read it in the room, against the protests of my friends who want to know nothing of this ‘cabbage sickness’ as they call it. I do not give up, however, and I have a capable assistant in Fritz Neubauer, who already has some knowledge of the Russian language. So during my work with him I am able to learn some vocabulary. I also write down the grammatical rules so that my writing, reading and speaking make quite good progress. That I can see some success, apart from having a firm aim before me, now makes learning this language a pleasure. It no longer seems so hard and unusual any more, and I work at it day and night. I pursue the Russian vocabulary even in my sleep. My friends look at me pityingly, thinking that I am no longer sane, but I ignore them.

  I had already put aside some roubles in the summer months. Now that I have 150 roubles, my decision to flee is confirmed. A prisoner of war is not allowed to have more than 150 roubles.

  7th November 1948. We have assembled in the camp yard for the celebration of the ‘great socialist October Revolution’. The head of all the Saporoschje camps, a colonel, is expected. Before he comes, our company commander goes along our front again and says: ‘When the colonel speaks you must clap, and when he calls for applause for Stalin at the end you shout “Hurrah!”’ The men in the crowd remain silent at these words, having their own thoughts. The colonel arrives and gives a richly worded speech on the greatness of the October Revolution of 1917. I feel as if I am in a theatre watching a performance and I am annoyed that I have to stand here.

  The ensuing propaganda march through the camp was almost like a carnival. The NKVD officers stood on the tribune and let the prisoners of war file past them in their rags and tatters. They were not satisfied with one march through the camp, so it had to be repeated twice. The camp police ensured that no one vanished. Then mottos were called out: ‘I love the great socialist October Revolution!’ ‘I love the friend of all freedom-loving people, Generalissimo Stalin!’ and so on. We were requested to finally respond with ‘Hurrah!’ or ‘Bravo!’ A prisoner of war raised a laugh as we were marching past the kitchen and smelt braised meat, for today there was to be goulash that had been saved up for days. He called out loudly ‘Long live goulash!’ And this time all gave a loud ‘Hurrah!’ amid loud laughter.