After Stalingrad

by Albert Holl

  Heavy banging on the wagon door woke me up. It was dark. With the help of the duty doorman the door was opened by the guards outside. A torch flashed. Through its half-covered beam I made out two guards. All the prisoners in the wagon had to move to one side, and we were herded together like sheep as the empty half of the wagon was carefully knocked and checked by two guards with long wooden hammers. Once it was ready, we were counted across into the checked half of the wagon. The guard counting us shouted ‘March, march!’ When this did not work, he enforced it with his long hammer handle. Finally they checked out just as carefully the other half of the wagon. To the guards’ loud shouting we had to run to and fro like recruits several times. Finally they disappeared. Midnight must have passed already. I fell asleep thinking over the experiences of the day.

  Early next morning the same game started as we had experienced at midnight. This time the counting went better.

  Days went past, with our train often remaining stationary on one bit of track or another for long periods. The guards were very sharp. We were counted two or three times a day, and the wagon repeatedly checked. Sentries ran about on the roofs and ensured that none of the prisoners went to the window without permission.

  The food was like all the rest until now. Prisoners with only short sentences have come with us from Charkov Prison and cook soup for us or bring us water. They will be returning to Charkov with the guards.

  In our wagon were several condemned persons who had fought on the German side against the Soviet Union. Except for one Russian, who nevertheless lived in the Ukraine, all the occupants were Ukrainians with sentences of between five and twenty-five years. Many of them had been in Germany and were enthusiastic about the general standards of living there. And these men had supported Germany in the fiercest fighting in their lives. We still do not understand today why they had believed the announcements of their government and returned to their homeland. Some were already in America or elsewhere on the globe away from the reach of the Soviets. But love of home overcame them and they believed Moscow’s promises that they would remain unmolested. Now they were paying for their gullibility with twenty-five years’ hard labour and further years of being deprived of the right to vote. Their families were punished with confiscations, of houses, cattle, and so on, and they themselves were not allowed to return to their place of birth at the end of their sentences.

  In long talks, which were very interesting for me and also educational, I obtained an impression of the character of the Ukrainian. They all had a deep national feeling and did not speak well of the Russians. Even with the youngsters, despite a unified Soviet education, I was able to establish that they had not lost their national instincts.

  Two Ukrainians especially stood out because of their education: Buburenkov, a former Kolchose supervisor who had studied theology but had had to change after the revolution, and Poronovsky, a bookkeeper. They told me about the history of Ukraine when it was still a principality with its capital in Kiev. In time the country became dependent upon Moscow and the revolution did not change things. With deep sincerity they both spoke of the famine that in 1932, according to their accounts, claimed more than two million victims and how the government, in order to diminish the vast extent of the death figures, paid the worth of 1 kilogram of corn for every dead person buried. When a person became weak from hunger and fell over they threw him on a cart and buried him even though he was still alive. In their hunger-madness some even became cannibals. I would not have believed it had I not myself lived through it in the months of February, March and April 1943.

  And then they started talking about the death figures of the hunger years 1946/7. It is extraordinary to learn from the mouths of Kolchose workers that people were starving in Europe’s bread-basket while deliveries of corn were being sent out to Australia.

  They asked questions about Germany in the period after 1933, and I answered them as far as possible. They wanted to know about the handling of prisoners on the German side. As I did not know, I could not say anything about this. Buburenkov told me: ‘When the German Wehrmacht came to Ukraine the whole of the Ukrainian people were delighted, as they regarded the German Wehrmacht as their liberators. Within half a year this smiling had turned to tears. And do you know what it means when a whole nation cries? Our men did not then come to you, but rather went to the partisans because they did not have to starve there!’

  Another Ukrainian reported about wartime conditions. He had been wounded in the fighting and went to the Irkutsk area to recuperate. Food was scarce and very poor. The old people suffered especially and were little more than skin and bones. Suddenly it was announced that an American commission was to visit the little townships and Kolchoses in the area and almost overnight all the shops were filled with foodstuffs that the starving people knew only from their dreams. The old and undernourished were driven far away to another place so that the Americans would not see them. Those remaining at the place were asked to go to the food shops when the commission was present, but they were warned of the strongest punishment if they did not take everything back afterwards. Should they be questioned by the Americans about their state of health, they must not complain, but rather declare that they were well and could buy everything necessary. It sounded unbelievable, and yet everyone knew who saw the arbitrary way in which things happened here, that these people could not have been handled otherwise. They were never in the position to liberate themselves by their own strength.

  We have long been travelling on Asian soil. Shortly before the Volga we met a homeward-bound train that was apparently carrying mainly sick. Our wagon stopped on the track right alongside and we were able to explain by signalling through the tiny window that we were sentenced prisoners of war. Hopefully they will report this back in the homeland.

  The next big station will be Novo-Sibirsk, where guards tell us, we will be deloused. We have already been on the way for eight days. In six batches we are taken from the train to the bathing place about 800 metres away. It was, by European standards, primitive, but we were bathed and deloused within a few hours. In the course of this one of us had 25 roubles stolen from him.

  A long, narrow footbridge runs over the track. Some passers-by gather and look curiously down on us as we get back aboard. From what I hear, their sympathy is on our side.

  We are still going east, and soon we are standing at Taishet station, with yet another 600 kilometres to Irkutsk. Will we be staying there, or going further on? From here to Vladivostock is another 2,500 kilometres at least.

  To our astonishment the train now turns off the main track and heads in a northerly direction, gradually turning east. It is clear to us that our journey cannot be much longer, as on the map that we still have in our minds there was no railway line here a short time ago.

  IN THE BANISHMENT CAMPS OF THE ‘ANGARLAG’ WEST OF LAKE BAIKAL

  We drive through the taiga for three days before the train stops at its destination, Bratsk. The terrain here is cut through by valleys and ravines and is very hilly. Several times we stopped on this stretch near camps. We even saw some Japanese prisoners. Back in November 1948 the Japanese had already been loaded onto wagons with the apparent intention of returning to their homeland. The Ukrainians lying by the window called out twice to them when the train was stopped. About 200 metres away we saw a prisoner of war camp. The occupants – of whom we saw several – were wearing SS camouflage uniform tunics and gloves. We were unable to attract their attention.

  We had long discussions about the likely fate of these men, who were strongly guarded. Were they also unable to write home, as at every camp in the Urals in which there were only members of the SS. A Russian prisoner in a Saporoschje prison said that he had worked quite close to a member of the Wehrmacht who was allowed to write home, while SS troops working in a woodland camp and carrying out wood-felling tasks were not allowed to.

  From the railway wagons we went in smaller columns to the individual camps of Bratsk. All such movement
s were carefully guarded, including with tracker dogs. We were, according to those who brought us, to be divided up among the town’s transit camps, so that those with political convictions and the criminal elements are kept apart. The whole town seemed to consist of these camps and the personnel belonging to them. I did not see a single factory, only the great wooden watchtowers so characteristic of the Soviet Union.

  The transport commander who took the German-Russian dictionary from me appears and gives me, instead of the dictionary, a Russian-English textbook on the grounds that the dictionary had been retained at Charkov. In fact, I think that he had kept it for himself. Anyway I am content to have some reading material at least.

  The camp that we have been brought to is overcrowded. As preliminary accommodation we are allocated the dining room, in which people are already housed. Such overcrowding reminds me of the time shortly after I was taken prisoner. We put our bags on the little stage on which the camp inmates live. I go to the toilets for a moment. During my absence of about ten minutes my bag is taken. I do not know what to do and am upset, as most of the books that I have been able to save until now have gone. All of the papers that I have been working on in order to learn the Russian language are also in my bag. I can get over the loss of everything else, but this loss cannot be replaced in the taiga. Such a thing has never occurred in the years until now, while I have been living with my comrades, but it has occurred here within minutes of my arrival.

  Even the pack from Breske has vanished. The Russian duty officer tells me that he can do nothing about it and that I should take better care next time. There will be no next time - I have now nothing to lose. I am angry with my comrades for not watching my bag, although I had asked them to. But which of us central Europeans could imagine that such theft takes place here like this?

  The night passes very slowly, as it always does when one has a poor sleeping place and people are so closely packed together. Everyone that has to go out must climb over the mass of bodies and listen to all sorts of complaints. My thoughts are still busy with the stolen items. Fortunately I still have the Fournier wooden-bound diary and the Drift der Papanins in English. If I want to learn more Russian I will have to use both these books as writing aids. I will cut out all the unpleasant things. I must escape during the summer and until then I must study.

  Early in the morning we are driven out into the yard to be counted. This is always a very disorderly process. My comrades stand forward in the first rows of six. The commandant complains a lot about having to translate things that are not understood. I step forward to try to translate for him, but I have hardly opened my mouth when I get struck in the neck from behind, followed by a hard kick. I am pushed back with the most horrible swearing, with which this country is so richly blessed. With my teeth clenched together, holding back the tears of pain, I stand there looking into the hate-filled face of this fellow who looks so subhuman. For hours after the counting I am still in no state to talk with my friends, who leave me alone. I will not forget the face of this NKVD agent.

  Luckily we were moved on the next day, the 8th of April, on trucks that drove up in front of the camp for this purpose and were specially equipped for it. We had to share with thirty other prisoners, while two sentries with machine-pistols saw to it that no one tried to escape. On the principle that it is ‘better to be driven badly than to walk well’, we were happy to save our legs.

  Our destination was Kaimonovo, a village lying far out in the taiga on the planned railway line. The distance to it was about 150 kilometres. We were driven a long distance on the ice of the Angara. This was already showing some very wide cracks that the hidden stream would soon sweep away for a few months. Sitting became even more uncomfortable. My friend Ottel, who was sitting with me in a truck, had an especially uncomfortable place, so we changed places at one halt. The villages here lay very far apart, and their huts illustrated the poverty of the inhabitants. The Russians were frightened of the fast driving of the truck drivers. One truck had already overturned. My friends Mütschele, Korff and Doerr were on it. Fortunately nothing serious occurred, with only a few Russians getting soaked.

  As night sinks down over us the driving becomes more difficult. We often have to climb off and push the trucks out of mud and holes in the snow. We stop on the edge of a village for a long time. Our truck driver has driven into a hole in the ice and the truck is now hanging with only the front axle secure. Here too it is a wonder that nothing happened.

  It is cold. The veins on my hands are frozen from the frost. My gloves were among my stolen things. Ottel gives me one of his. We have already been on our way for more than fourteen hours. The guards are becoming ever more unpleasant. My legs ache from the tight seating. Wherever one looks, there is nothing but woodland. The taiga is unending here.

  At dawn we come through a small village. Kaimonovo at last. Another 3 kilometres and we stop. How our legs ache after such a strenuous journey. We are taken over by another guard and march from the road down a short hill to a camp. The surrounding fence puts an end to all doubts. A short stop before the camp gate and then we are called forward by our personal files and let into the camp.

  As I soon discover, this is the 206th Column ‘Angarlag’: a women’s camp. Apart from Kurt App, who we had seen from our truck on the way – he was with a column that was continuing on foot – we are all together. Apart from the kitchen hut and the bathhouse, there are only two barrack blocks. Our provisional accommodation is a summer barrack that had been used as an isolation barrack until now. One could almost compare it to a cave, and had I not already experienced similar holes I would have believed it impossible to sleep here with so many people. However, it suits us and we are especially pleased to have a roof, even if it has holes in it, and it also has a petrol can that serves as a stove. It is inadequately supplied with water, so snow is melted. There is no toilet available. I have the impression that this camp had only been set up the year before.

  Russian sentries ensure that the young prisoners do not get into the women’s barracks, but some still manage it during the night. They report on their experiences with the usual smiles.

  To my surprise there are female sentries in the watchtowers. It is explained to me that these are condemned prisoners with only short sentences to complete. The same thing happens in the men’s camps.

  Despite my fatigue I can hardly get any rest. The lack of room in the barrack prevents me from sleeping. There are bugs here, too.

  On the morning of the 10th of April we were deloused and examined by a doctor. The doctor himself did not speak a word to us, but his companion was full of hate towards us when he discovered that we were German. Then at midday we had to assemble at the camp gate and form up in our allocated work teams. To my regret we were separated. Mütschele, Korff, Breske, Doerr and Menden went to the 209th Team, which was based about 12 kilometres from here. Götz, Franke, Schroeter and I had to go with the prisoners in the 208th Team. As the sentry told us, this is quite a new camp.

  With us come those with political sentences. The track that we are marching along is saturated. It was first made several months ago, and until then hardly any human foot had trod this ground. Silently, each one of us considering his own thoughts, we go through the endless taiga. I visualise once more the map I had seen hanging in an office in Bratsk. According to that, we are now some 600 kilometres northwest of the northern edge of Lake Baikal. If I am going to flee, then my only option is to try to get to Irkutsk and from there via Schita to Manchuria. But how to achieve this, I have not yet worked out.

  There are women there! Suddenly, at a turn in the track, about two hundred female prisoners come into sight. Silently we look at each other, the guards having forbidden any talking. All races and nationalities are represented. Old and young, with more or less tattered clothing or padded suits. Most seem careworn, but some of the younger ones give a carefree impression and ask us where we come from. Despite the ban on talking, some men speak to them as they go pa
st. Immediately the guard commander jumps between them like a bulldog. Are there also German women with them? We cannot establish this from their dress, since they all look the same.

  At last we reach the camp. In fact, it is quite a new camp. There is no fencing and apart from the guardroom, in which the camp commandant lives, only two tents have been set up. In the first tent there are already about a hundred men who arrived yesterday from Charkov. They were not, however, political prisoners, much to our regret, as it seemed to us that those imprisoned for political offences were rarely also thieves. There are three Germans among them (one of whom, Hans Rempelt, was abducted from the Siebenbürgen to Russia), making seven Germans in the camp altogether.

  The living conditions here are very bad and are typically ‘in progress’. There is no kitchen, its function being replaced by a cauldron standing in the open air. There is no toilet, so we use anywhere outside that is suitable. There is no bath, so we have to content ourselves with washing with melted snow. The water for the kitchen is brought in by cart, but it is hardly sufficient. There is no bakery, the bread being brought from a neighbouring camp.

  Apart from the guardroom, everything has to be planned and erected. Our first job is to fence ourselves in, erecting a 3.5-metre-high fence around the whole camp complex. It is a difficult and tiring task, as the melting ice is very obstructive. All four of us – Götz, Franke, Schroeter and I – work on the holes that have to be dug for the posts. The ground is frozen down to a metre’s depth and hardly thaws at all in the summer here, where the woodland closes in and the sunlight cannot penetrate. Often stones make it difficult too. As tools for the workers there are only crowbars, hammers, hoes and spades. The food here is also completely insufficient and our strength soon diminishes. As our foreman, a Russian called Schlakov, cheats on our provisions, we soon come into conflict with him. We are able to move to a carpentry brigade, but here too the work norms are very high in order to obtain additional food.