After Stalingrad

by Albert Holl

  One day I met in the camp the chief of the camp guards, the captain who had questioned me and had arranged our transfer to this camp. Once more I asked him for the vocabulary that I had written out. He refused to give it back, saying: ‘Study our solution to the fulfilment of our Five Year Plan, which is here in this yard, and you will learn enough!’ He then pointed to the signs standing on both sides of the camp road calling for the early fulfilment of the Five Year Plan. ‘If you get back to Germany once your sentence is completed, you can still learn enough Russian!’ He left me standing there with a cynical laugh.

  STRANGE ENCOUNTER IN THE TAIGA

  The month of May has almost ended. For more than two weeks now I have been working with the Klutschnikov Brigade in the women’s area. The northbound truck convoys, heading for the Lena, are still stopping here with their Lithuanians, Latvians, Estonians and West Ukrainians from the former Poland, with their few belongings. These groups were given about twenty minutes to decide whether to adopt the Kolchose system or not; those who were reluctant were then regarded as dangerous elements living too near the border and were shipped out. Ammunition, fuel and food transports have also been rolling north for about fourteen days without a break. The trucks, mainly three-axled, are from the Red Army, like their drivers.

  Our work is very hard, especially dragging up the large tree trunks required for building the blockhouse. It has already gone noon. As always we are immediately driven back to work after eating. With my axe – it is the bluntest one, as I was not at the morning struggle for the best tools – I hack at a trunk.

  I am already thinking about the vast difference between the women at home and the creatures that go about here. A few minutes ago one of the women made an indecent proposal; they seem to be only on the search for men. She had previously discovered from the Russians that I am a ‘Nemetz’, i.e. a German. I continued with my work without reacting in any way until she left. How repulsive can such a person be!

  Other images run through my head. One only has to look at the people who have been here for years, some living behind the wire for a decade or more, and the question arises: ‘Are they men or animals?’ My conclusion is that they are ‘animal-like people’. One can then also understand why these unfortunate creatures, if they are a little less robust, would one day be prepared to put an end to their lives, as was the case yesterday evening with a female guard on the watchtower of Camp 206. She shot herself through the head, although she had less than five years’ imprisonment to go. Grossmann’s book, These people are imperishable!, describes how he came to a place in which he found German prisoners of war at a meal. From their slurping he obtained the impression that he was in a pigsty. Grossmann was right, erring only in that he came not to German prisoner of war accommodation but to the canteen in some Russian factory or perhaps a dining room in a Russian prison camp.

  The incidents that we see in the dining room every day – including the brawling at the kitchen serving hatch – are indescribable and incomprehensible to a normal European. I had not experienced such scenes even in the prisoner of war camps where great hunger reigned. And how is it at the construction site? Not a jot better! The brigadiers and Bladnois get double and triple rations that the cooks pass under the table to them, as they get their money from the brigadiers for the gas that comes to the camp in mysterious ways. We working animals often do not even get what is due to us. Not everything goes into the cauldron that should! Quite often the camp’s experts receive meat, fat, oil, fish, noodles and various high-grade items from the kitchens. The final result is naturally that the broad masses see nothing of it. No one dares raise a storm against this or they would be done away with. Despotism rules here! The work norm setter is a prisoner, as are the bookkeeper and the master and all those concerned with our supervision. As they earn just about nothing, they have to obtain their money by other means and so their demands are relatively high – vodka is not cheap! The broad mass of the working animals are hungry and want to live, and their focus of attention is directed only at food. It lies in the hands of the brigadiers to allocate them a larger percentage than they can actually obtain from the state norms. The master, however, must approve the whole work and check it. The brigadier pays him only a set sum, confirming also the work not carried out, so that more income can be allocated. The slave is happy if he receives up to 450 grams of bread a day, and is quite ready to hand over the biggest part of his money to his brigadier as he otherwise would get nothing at all in the coming month in either money or supplementary food! This way, as a rule, the monthly income does not exceed 40 to 50 roubles.

  The majority are happy if they can buy a loaf once a month. This bread is smuggled in by the bakers, who work outside the camp. A 3 kilo loaf costs between 10 and 20 roubles and so takes half the money earned. In every brigade there are those who give the whole of their money to the brigadier. In turn, every day they receive most of the supplementary rations, although they have done no work. They are the special darlings of the brigadier; often homosexually inclined, they remain at his disposal. These lads do not work; they do nothing all day. Even the guards can do nothing about them.

  If only there were none of these damned small midges. It is impossible to chase them away and they creep into every gap in one’s clothing in order to suck one’s blood. The Russians call them ‘Moschkach’. They swarm around us in their thousands. It is simply impossible to work in the open air without wearing scarves that have to be secured under the neck, or the insects creep into the mouth, eyes, ears and nose. It is enough to drive one crazy: our hands are bitten and full of small bumps. But no one asks the foremen for relief – the answer is always the same: ‘You have to work, you dog!’

  At midday the temperatures average between 30 and 40 degrees. Then in the evening it cools down so quickly that one is happy to have a padded jacket.

  I am jerked out of my thoughts. A West Ukrainian, formerly a Polish citizen, who worked in Austria during the war and would love to go back, calls out to me: ‘Comrade, there is a German here!’ I suddenly see a blond woman opposite, of medium size and blue eyes. From her appearance she could be in her mid-thirties.

  ‘Are you German?’ She looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Yes, I am from Berlin.’ I present myself. ‘But how did you get to this godforsaken place?’ With a sad smile that shows quite openly the pain and harm she has endured, she replies: ‘I am called Lisa Nickel and I was arrested in the street near Schloss Bellevue in 1947. I am married and have always lived in Berlin. They accused me of being a Russian citizen who had first seen the light of day in Kiev. I was indeed born there, as the child of German parents, and I went to Berlin with my parents as a two-year-old child. I grew up there and got married. But it was confirmed in the official registry there that I was born in Kiev and because of this I was sentenced to ten years’ hard labour for being a traitor. Now I am here and have to work like the others. I can barely understand even the most important Russian words.’

  The fate of this woman impressed me a lot, but I did not let her see this. The Russians watching us made salacious remarks and asked me why I did not vanish with the woman into the barracks. In reply, I tell them that in Germany other customs apply and not all men are animals like them. A braying laugh was the reply. They had not understood the sharpness of my ripost.

  Frau Nickel told me that she was not the only one. Other German women and men had been taken from the Soviet Zone after the end of the war. But there were also Volksdeutsche women from Ukraine and the Volga Republic here. They had either worked for the Germans and been banished at the end of the war, or, like Lisa, had been in banishment camps as enemy aliens since the beginning of the war.

  Back in the camp I described my meeting with Frau Nickel. My comrades were also touched by her story. We knew what this woman must have already gone through and what lay ahead of her. How many other German women and girls could have been taken away? I thought of the report of my comrades who worked in the Electricit
y Works. While emptying railway wagons, they found that German women had written on the walls while loading the wagons. This was their work now.

  A FRIEND FALLS BY THE ROADSIDE

  Ottel is giving me cause for concern. He is still working as a carpenter with a brigade whose brigadier is an especially disgusting creature. Ottel is too proud to reject the work allocated to him. I was deeply shocked when I last saw him in a bath. He is now nothing but skin and bones, just like Schroeter, and yet he was the strongest one among us until now. It is perhaps understandable – for a man 187 centimetres tall the food here is far too little, even were he not working. Ottel lies on his bed with a very flushed face and takes no part in the evening conversation. He has a temperature of 39 degrees. He should go to the sickbay in the morning – hopefully his temperature will have gone down by then.

  To our regret, Ottel has to go to the hospital, as his fever has increased. But it is better for him to go there for a few days than to lie here in the barracks. We say goodbye to our friend before going off to work. Days pass without our being able to discover anything about Ottel. He is in the 204th Column’s hospital 4 kilometres away.

  Meanwhile I have got to know a Latvian who served as an SS man in German service. He is a tall chap, with open, clear eyes and a pleasant manner. He speaks good German and confides in me that he wants to escape, having no wish to spend another nine years in this hell. He loathes the Russians who have oppressed and looted his homeland, as he says. I am also constantly thinking of escaping, and we agree to flee together. We will try first to get through the taiga in a northerly direction to reach the Trans-Siberian Railway and then go on by train to Manchuria. The border is some 2,000 kilometres distant. As long as we are on Soviet territory he will use his knowledge of the language to safeguard our interests, while I will use my knowledge of English in Manchuria. We both know that it will be a very difficult adventure and it could easily go wrong.

  Our intention is not to go on the roads and only to march by night, as long as we are in the border area. For the time being it is still too early to make the attempt as at the moment it is impossible to obtain fruit from the wilderness. We make our preparations slowly and carefully, concerning ourselves with such matters as what we will need for catching fish. It all has to be done with extreme caution, otherwise our escape plans will come to nothing.

  Luckily I am able to join the Latvian’s brigade. This is important because we want to flee from our workplace. But unfortunately my stay with the brigade is very short: my left knee has been causing me pain for days, and now I can hardly walk. It is very swollen, and the pain and the swelling are extending to my foot. Every step brings tears to my eyes. The Russian woman in the ambulatorium says it is the Zinga. What that is, I have no idea. Prisoners who have already had it say it is due to a lack of vitamins and is brought on by the bad and unbalanced diet.

  My friend Oskar, who found himself a job as a laundryman in the camp and is now working with Ruprecht Scholtissek, has also fallen ill with this Asiatic sickness. His leg displays swelling as thick as mine. There is no medicine in the ambulatorium for this sickness, but we constantly hear the same thing: ‘Drink chvoi!’ This is a drink made from the chopped leaves of the Listviniza, a needle-like Siberian tree. After boiling the leaves, the water looks green. We drink the chvoi, but it is little better than nothing.

  I have been within the camp area for several days already. Every movement gives me indescribable pain, such that it takes me a quarter of an hour to hobble the fifty metres to the ambulatorium. No brigade will have me, as I am a burden. Food has to be brought to me, and I can only conduct my necessary functions with the greatest pain because I cannot bend my leg. There is no question of escaping under these circumstances, but I have to get better again before the time of year makes flight impossible. It is now the middle of June and I have to be better by August. Ivan the Latvian will wait until then. I lie down in the barracks waiting for my comrade Wolf, who should appear back from work at any moment.

  Today is the 15th of June. The day, like the previous ones, was very hot. The first men are coming into the barracks. They are dirty and sweaty, moving tiredly. Some have swollen faces from the bites of the small blood-thirsty midges that drive men mad.

  Wolf comes in. He looks tired and exhausted. His face is also swollen – he has difficulties with the flies because he has to wear spectacles.

  ‘Good evening, Wolf!’

  ‘Good evening, Bert!’

  ‘God be thanked the day is over. Anything new?’ He looks at me with his big blue eyes. I then notice for the first time that he looks particularly serious.

  ‘What’s the matter, Wolf?’ I ask him. With a tired, sad voice he replies: ‘Bert, Otto is dead.’

  ‘That cannot be!’ I cry out. ‘How do you know?’

  Wolf sits down opposite me. ‘Today at the workplace I met a new chap who had left the hospital yesterday. When he discovered that I was a German, he came up to me and said that a German had died in the hospital on the 9th of June. He could not give me the name exactly, but when I said Otto’s name, he confirmed it.’

  I sit as if stunned. That simply cannot be true. Otto had been taken prisoner with me at Stalingrad on the 2nd of February 1943. We had been together since March 1944, with the exception of a few months, and had shared happiness and sorrow together. At age seventeen he had already been a soldier and had overcome everything until now. Telling lies was unknown to him. His way was straight ahead, without compromise, and now he is no longer alive. I think of his wife and his children who long for him.

  ‘We must go to the female doctor. She is the only person who can give us a precise explanation. Perhaps it was another German that died.’

  I carefully make my way to the ambulatorium, suppressing my pain. The little doctor asks what I want. As we are always very quiet and withdrawn, we Germans enjoy a more advantageous handling than the broad mass of prisoners.

  ‘Excuse me please, madam, but our friend Otto Goetz is said to have died. A convalescent who came to the camp yesterday told us. We are greatly upset and would like to know for certain whether the news is true. We ask you, next time you have an opportunity, to ask at the hospital whether the dead man is really Otto Goetz.’ The little doctor promises to ask at the next opportunity. I thank her and hobble back to Wolf. With him were Oskar and Ruprecht, who could hardly take in this sad news. Oskar said: ‘As long as we have nothing official, I do not believe it.’

  The awfulness of the news, and not knowing the truth of it, was like a nightmare for us. But the next day I was called to the ambulatorium. ‘Your friend Goetz is alive. It was another German who died, whose name we do not know. I met the doctor from the hospital who told me personally that Goetz is alive.’ I thanked her with much joy and hurried as fast as I could to my friends, who as usual at this time of day were having their evening chat: ‘Ottel is alive! I have come straight from the doctor, who confirmed it to me. Unfortunately another of our countrymen died whose name is not known.’ They all heaved a sigh of relief. We were delighted at this news.

  Two murders have occurred during the short time we have been here. The first was when a former Bladnoi, who had become a camp elder, stabbed another Bladnoi. He was quickly removed by the NKVD as he was difficult case, or so I was told by another Bladnoi. The murderer had already taken two other men’s lives in this way. As punishment for this he was taken to another camp and given the job of camp senior. We have not heard anything about an official sentence.

  The second must have happened yesterday evening. This time it was the camp senior who stabbed the work assigner. The camp senior was an old Sakoni, a professional criminal, while the other was a renegade.

  It is cruel to see how such creatures behave when they argue. Crowbars and axes are their favourite weapons. The one caught stealing lies on the ground and the other jumps on him as if he were a rubber mattress. When others take part, it becomes more savage. The thief is bound hand and foot and thrown hig
h into the air, the impact rendering him unconscious. To me these sights revealing the animal nature of these creatures are utterly repulsive.

  I myself have been badly handled three times in this camp. The first time, my brigadier, Klutschnikov, in a drunken state hit me without reason with an arm-thick birch branch on the right forearm; my arm swelled up and gave me severe pain for several days. On the second occasion a Bladnoi of this brigade jabbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into my eyes because I would not carry his tools back to camp. The third time another Bladnoi gave me some strong blows in the kidneys because I had allegedly left a hatchet lying behind. It is a simple matter for these bandits. If they lose something or make a mistake, they simply blame the German. He is alone and cannot defend himself – apart from which, it is more sensible to keep his mouth shut. If he tries to say something, then it is: ‘Shut your gob, Fritz! Fascist! Damned dog!’ With inexpressible anger and fists clenched in his pockets, he keeps his scorn under control.

  A week has passed since we were informed that Otto was alive. Today I am summoned to see the Russian woman doctor, who tells me that she had been given false information. Otto is dead. This morning she was in the hospital herself and asked about Goetz. This way she discovered that Goetz had died from pneumonia at 6 o’clock on the morning of the 9th of June. It took days for us to return to a normal existence in the camp. Otto was my best friend in captivity and was liked and respected by all of us. Fate is unfathomable and sometimes also incomprehensible. So many rogues return home and the best men remain by the roadside!