The Autobiography
of Eugen Mansfeld
A German settler’s life in colonial Namibia
Translated by Will Sellick
Contents
Contents
Introduction
Early life
Two years in Walvis Bay
Working for the DKG
The Herero Rebellion 1904
After the Herero War
1910 diary
Working for the Company
German South-West Africa in the war
Germany
Postscript
Glossary
German military ranks
Bibliography
Index
Introduction and acknowledgements
In the summer of 1942 Eugen Mansfeld, then aged 71 and living with his daughter-in-law in Cape Town, painstakingly typed out his autobiography; in German, double-spaced on 179 pages of lined paper. He pasted in some family photographs, drew some maps by hand with a fine mapping pen, then bound it all in a hardboard folder and apparently never looked at it again. The original document—a together with Mansfeld’s dress sword and war medals, and several folders filled with original documents relating to the Mansfeld family—is in the collection of Dr Nigel McLean of Johannesburg, South Africa.
Mansfeld was a participant in many key events in colonial-era Namibian history. As an early German colonist and employee—later deputy director—of the Deutsche Kolonial Gesellschaft für Süd West Afrika (DKG) he was directly involved in the process of appropriation of Namibian land from the people who lived there. He fought against the Herero uprising, issued licences to white diamond prospectors in the early 1900s, and mobilised against British and South African forces as an officer in the Schutztruppe Reserve during the First World War.
It is clear from the content and the differing styles within the account that in writing it, Mansfeld drew on other personal, contemporaneous sources: his accounts of the Herero uprising and the First World War are obviously straight transcriptions, more or less, from his original diaries written in the field.
Mansfeld’s eventual intention was that his sons should read this book after his death, and a large part of its historical value comes directly from it being a gossipy, informal account by a man writing for his family, not a carefully-considered work for publication or eventual public dissemination. The account makes for a brutal, distressing and uncomfortable read at times (Dr Martha Akawa, a historian at the University of Namibia, describes it as ‘stomach-churning’, adding that it is ‘emotionally draining and plainly upsetting and distressing’.) Constant racism and anti-Semitism; accounts of hanging black combatants during the Herero uprising; a detailed description of how his men set fire to the church and houses of the people of Barmen and the village of Okamita; burning the possessions of a group of Bushmen because Mansfeld believed they had stolen his horses. In one gruesome passage Mansfeld gives a matter-of-fact account of robbing a grave in order to obtain an old man’s skull as a souvenir, later boiling the flesh off the skull in the farmhouse kitchen at Spitzkopje and causing Mansfeld’s housekeeper to leave in disgust.
First-person accounts of Namibia’s complex history are few and far between; this work helps to fill some of the gaps in our understanding of the story of this region of southern Africa. Ultimately the value of Mansfeld’s autobiography lies in the new light it enables historians to cast on Namibia’s early colonial-era history: in the words of President Hage Geingob, ‘gathering and preserving the different eras in history that shaped Namibia into the country it is today’.
My sincere thanks to Christine Leist for her assistance with some particularly idiomatic nineteenth-century German slang phrases; to the Namibian historian Theophelus Gurirab for his assistance in identifying Mansfeld’s housekeeper; and to Jan-Bart Gewald for his thoughtful and encouraging suggestions. All translation errors are my own.
Will Sellick
June 2017
Early life
I have set down the following notes containing an account of my life for my sons, so that after my death they know the story of their father’s ‘gypsy life’.
I will briefly go over my early youth; it was not all sunny, and my children have had a happier and more loving childhood than I did.
I was born on 1 April 1871 in Tetschen an der Elbe[1] (Bohemia), which was then a proper German provincial town with a population of about 5,000; the second son of Carl Mansfeld, a businessman and Prussian citizen. I lived with my four brothers under the tender care of my parents until my tenth year. Following four years at school in Tetschen, I joined my elder brother Alfred in Dresden both at the Neustädter Gymnasium there; and at the austere boarding-house of retired Grenadier-Feldwebel Förster, which was run along strictly military lines. After completing a three-year course at the Dresden Higher Business School, on 1 April 1888 I became an apprentice in the office of the Cretuznach & Scheller textile spinning mill, subsequently completing a two-year apprenticeship, and about a year as a clerk. As part of getting to know the technical spinning operation, for a year I was active in the factory from six to nine in the morning, becoming a master spinner, and acquiring engineering knowledge that would prove useful in later years.
On 1 April 1891 I signed up for one year as a volunteer in the Schützen-Füsilier-Regiment Nr. 108; I became a Gefreiter on 1 October 1891, and was promoted to Unteroffizier on 1 January 1892. Shortly after my discharge at the end of March 1892, I got a position at the wool merchants Wilkens & Co. in Antwerp; I used a two-month vacation in 1894 to undertake a one-week military exercise with my regiment, and, promoted to Vice-Feldwebel, returned to my firm for another year.
These three years in Antwerp counted as the happiest and most carefree of my life. I had a bunch of good friends in Antwerp’s German community, and by working hard during my spare time I learned to speak French perfectly; I also spent many happy hours with Walloon and Flemish families. To describe everything would fill a book by itself: looking back, it is probably better if the many stupid pranks we played stay unrecorded.
In March 1895 I returned to Germany to carry out my two eight-weekly Reserve exercises, back with the Schützen-Füsilier-Regiment, travelling around in Germany and Austria and participating for a short while in my father’s business. But Germany did not attract me: Antwerp was my first taste of a foreign country, and now I felt compelled to travel further afield.
During these military exercises I already carried around references from my boss in Antwerp, Herr Wilkens; and I had applied for positions in Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Sydney and South Africa. I had already had a job offer from Montevideo, which I declined because of the low salary, but I accepted an offer from the firm of Malcomess & Company, in East London in South Africa, as an assistant wool buyer, and I gave notice to Wilkens.
The choice was free passage and a three-year contract; or travel at my own expense, with no contract and one month’s mutual notice. “Three years is a long time,” I said to myself; “you might prosper, but perhaps you can also find something better while you’re in Africa …” so I declined a contract. My father opposed my travelling to Africa, calling me an ‘adventurer’, and refused to give or advance me the money for the journey. However, since childhood I had put money in a savings account, which by now also contained my grandfather’s inheritance of 300 marks: it went straight towards my travel expenses, and I landed in East London with four pounds in my pocket.
In August 1895 I proceeded to London and introduced myself to the agents of Malcomess & Co.; two days later I was leaving Southampton on board the old Union Castle steamer Norham Castle. The journey was uneventful; I never became seasick, and I en
joyed my life and my freedom. I would just like to mention three good pieces of advice that one traveller—an old Scot, with whom I became slightly drunk—offered. He told me that nobody makes a job for you; you must make it for yourself; and to watch out, because in South Africa there are more cheats than honest men.
“One: never talk too much, but listen to what people say; even if they believe you are not listening; and always keep one eye open. Two: you can always make a living using your head, even if somebody else owns your arse. Persevere when you first start out; if you find a good position, stick with it rather than changing jobs when someone offers you a pound more. Three: assume that every man you meet is a swindling bastard until you can convince yourself that he is a genuinely decent chap.”
I have always followed this advice, and profited by it; except that years later, in 1922, I did not obey point three—not believing or suspecting that the German homeland could have degenerated so far—and was seriously ripped off.
East London was at that time still a nice little town, the chief harbour for wool exports besides Port Elizabeth. The firm Malcomess & Co. was one of the biggest trading houses, with more than 60 employees in various different departments. There were three men in the Wool Department with plenty to do during the wool season (especially as the senior wool buyer was ill over a long period) as we were buyers for the largest German wool merchants, spinners and laundries, and also for firms in London and Antwerp.
My knowledge of English improved as quickly as possible; I was living with an English family, in which I was the only German out of six other boarders. At precisely the same time, the notorious Jameson Raid took place, leading to the Boer War. Because of the Kaiser’s telegram to President Kruger, the mood towards Germany became quite hostile, and I had many a punch thrown at me—but never failed to return the compliment.
The wool season did not give me free weekends; on Monday at noon the European post went from East London, and I wrote weekly wool reports for London, often as long as twenty pages. On Saturdays I sat alone at the office until late on Saturday evening or even Sunday morning, and then on Sunday afternoon brought my report to old Mr Malcomess’s[2] house for his signature. Apart from my old friend Jungheinrich, who was manager of the Agricultural Machinery department, I was the only employee to visit the Malcomess home regularly, and I spent many enjoyable Sundays there.
I first learnt to ride in East London. An Afrikaner colleague from work, whose father kept a number of horses, put one always at my disposal. There was one young, fiery beast which went through many a time with me, and repeatedly threw me… I was soon confident in the saddle. My friend and I frequently bought horses, fed them up and groomed them, exercised them, and then sold them for a nice profit, so our financial positions gradually improved. One travelling circus raffled off a horse in a lottery; we bought it the same evening from the winner for two pounds. It was a decrepit old circus-pony, skinny and slouching. We fed it a dose of arsenic, and it soon became beautiful: it fattened up, got a beautiful glossy coat and regained some of its spirit. I used to ride it through the streets in the evening, and it soon aroused the attention of a wealthy Jew, a pig-ignorant wretch who knew nothing of horses, but wanted “ze pretty horsie” for his son Moses. For a long time we pretended to prize the noble animal too much to sell it, and the asking price kept rising until one evening we agreed to sell it. We groomed the old creature so that it gleamed like a mirror; poured a glass of champagne into its nostril to give it bright eyes; shoved two chewed peppercorns into its back passage to keep the long, well-combed tail beautifully high; then I rode it backwards and forwards and put it through its paces.
Our buyer was delighted to carry off the horse, and we shared the proceeds of £27 between us. The noble animal soon became once again a tired, skinny old circus-pony, as its new master naturally did not know our secret methods of feeding and maintaining it.
In the middle of 1906 I managed to get a serious attack of typhoid; for four weeks I lay in the hospital, and the doctor gave me up as lost. When I was discharged I weighed only ninety pounds, and was supposed to go home for a change of air and to convalesce; on the suggestion of Herr Malcomess I went to Tilden[3], so that if I wanted to I could assist the branch manager, who was not a wool specialist, with purchasing wool. There we rode out to all the surrounding farms and bought the fleeces—many of which were still on the sheep. For the first eight hours the long ride there and back, at a half-trot, vibrated right into my bones; I had to take off my underwear and riding breeches in the bath, because I had ridden the entire skin of my buttocks raw, and for the following days I had to have my meals standing up, because it was impossible to sit down.
My hospital and medical expenses (which I had to pay for myself as Malcomess & Co did not feel obliged to) ate up my savings again. Malcomess was in Germany and Dirks (his partner at that time) was an unpleasant man, loved and esteemed by none of the company’s employees.
I soon saw that life with the wool firms was exactly like being on board a ship: the first buyer is the captain; takes a good salary; buys wool and does nothing more. The second buyer is the first officer; takes a small salary, does the remaining dirty work, and must also often cover the duties of the first buyer. These first buyers are naturally keen to stay in their good positions, and the second buyer can only be promoted if the first buyer should leave or die. Since our first buyer was still a young man like myself, I would not have succeeded to his post until I was a grandfather.
The company turned down an application I put in for a salary increase, and so I said to myself, “Move on, gypsy-boy, and find another trough to feed from”. I had already been offered one opportunity: my older brother Alfred had completed his studies and become a doctor of medicine, and was serving as a ship’s doctor for one journey on board the steamer Melita Bohlen. His destination at that time was Walvis Bay, where he was spending three days as the guest of Herr Josef Sichel, of the firm Mertens & Sichel. He had heard from Sichel that the company was looking for an employee in Walvis Bay, and wrote to me: “If East London no longer satisfies you, write immediately to Sichel and tell him when you can start. It’s all arranged—let’s go to South-West Africa!”
Two years in Walvis Bay
At that time there was no direct steamship route between East London and South-West Africa. I had to travel by railway, to Cape Town via De Aar, where I arrived on 2 January 1897. From here, every month, the small coaster Leutwein, 168 tons gross, owned by Oberleutnant Troost of Berlin and commanded by Captain Parow, left for Walvis Bay. We departed on the evening of 3 January, with four passengers; travelling with me were George and Ruby Ehlers of the English Guano Company, which had leased Cape Cross[4] from the German Colonial Company.
In their company was a Mr Matthews,[5] who was said to have discovered the guano deposits; he had gone somewhat native, and was a total drunk, but otherwise a good-natured chap. I had the fortune to share one of the two cabins with him: this was no great pleasure in a confined space, as Matthews, to whom the journey was routine, and who did not change his grubby clothes once during the trip, smelled rather strong; and drank two bottles of whisky every night, which he kept hidden in the base of his bunk. After four long days we arrived in Walfisch Bay, and my employment with Mertens & Sichel began immediately.
I was not exactly overwhelmed by the sight of my new home, and it was somewhat different from East London. On a flat plain stood a church and five houses, built from wood and corrugated iron. One of these, the government building, was occupied by Magistrate Cleverly[6] and family, and a white policeman. Then the warehouse and living quarters, with a lean-to, of the company Mertens & Sichel (Sichel[7] and his white manager); in the same building lived an Englishman with his Baster[8] wife. The double-storey house of the harbourmaster, Koch (him, his wife and daughter), and the mission house (Eich and his two daughters). So, generally speaking, following my arrival there were thirteen white adults; while the native population of three hundred Hottentots[
9] lived about five kilometres to the east, behind the sand dunes, at the watering-place Sandfontein.
Walvis Bay was the harbour for South-West Africa; almost all goods for the interior had to be landed here, and carried further inland by ox waggon. From the end of 1896 a Wörmann[10] steamship came every two months from Hamburg, with a stop at Swakopmund to unload goods using landing boats.
My home at M&S was a fenced yard of four square metres, made from corrugated iron and crate planks; it contained an iron bedstead, a crate with a wash-basin, and a coat-hook. There were so many draughts coming through the planks and door that my clothing and bed-clothes were usually quite damp from the fog.
Every morning at five o’clock, ox-waggons appeared on the plain behind Walvis Bay. As soon as they became visible from my look-out, I rode out to meet them and buy up their produce—beef oxen, sheep, hides, fleeces and ostrich feathers—before our English competitor in his shed had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and combed the whisky fumes of the previous evening out of his hair. Unloading the waggons and calculating the English customs paperwork and payments for the freight drivers, whose transport costs came out of the sale proceeds, took until late in the evening. Only then could I carry out the remaining work—correspondence and book-keeping.
In March 1897 a sailing ship from Argentina brought Herr Otto Bohnstedt and his wife, with 120 horses for their farm. There was still no jetty, and the horses had to be landed on rafts. Bohnstedt thought he was being clever by buying a number of pregnant mares, hoping that they would foal soon after arriving at the farm. During the course of the two-month voyage the animals had suffered terribly from sea-sickness, had been thrown back and forth and maltreated, and most had miscarried as a consequence. While I was down on the raft beside the sailors, standing by a number of horses waiting to disembark, it was terrible to see one mare giving birth while left hanging in a sling. The whole undertaking was an utter fiasco; these mares were naturally useless for further breeding purposes; still more animals died on the long overland trek to the farm; and Bohnstedt’s horse breeding ended with this expensive experiment.
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