When the Flagpoles Bloomed

by Vera Oredsson

  Ugh, no, don’t let us ruin our coffee party with these horrid memories. But I will never again speak Polish, not even with the maids and farmhands. Mother will have to do that,” said Friedel Keller.

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  I looked at the picture of the Führer that hung on the wall, recalling the picture on the back side, and my gaze wandered over the table and the beautiful coffee cups that were saved and a few new ones. Friedel’s friends knew that a beautiful cup was always a welcome present, even from the liberators who sometimes came by and said hello. Outside the window on the school’s flagpole waves the swastika banner, shining in the late summer sun. The top of the pole is decorated with flowers. The people celebrated the anniversary of their liberation.

  The small angels

  From a hill in my place of residence, Kruschdorf, located outside of Bromberg, one could vaguely see the church tower in Lochowo.

  Whenever the name of that village was mentioned, a creepy, gloomy atmosphere was spread, clearly noted by unknowing visitors. If Bromberg was talked about, all the horrible assaults on the German citizens around the end of August and beginning of September, 1939, were eagerly described. But Lochowo showed reactions of horror, women holding back their tears, while the men’s faces took on looks of hate and anger, which is why questions from the curious were cut off by saying not to pour salt in open wounds. But from what I have learned from the stories of eyewitnesses I can put together the documented events:

  The village of Lochowo lies a little out of the way in a valley with surroundings of agriculture, pine forests, and sandy plains that are typical of West Prussia. There is a simple road that runs through the community with the low brick houses where the church is the dominating feature. It is an ordinary village with pecking hens, ducks, and noisy geese that waddle through the village.

  One morning in August-September, all hell broke loose. An undisciplined rabble of Polish soldiers stopped their vehicles in the middle of the village and wreaked havoc there for several days, stirring up the Polacks in the village, who earlier had lived together harmoniously with their German neighbours, worked for them or together with them. Now they were changed beyond recognition, and who it was who came up with the horrible idea that all the German children in the village should be slaughtered (yes, the children) before their parents’ eyes, no one knew. But the mob forced all the children out into the open spot in the village and started a bloodbath of such human degradation that it can hardly be described. It is possible that the Polish-Catholic population’s eagerness in their faith had turned over so far that they felt called upon to follow Herrod’s decree about child-killing with the aim of killing the Jesus child according to the Bible, and instead now kill the German children. Babies were torn out of their mothers’ arms without taking any consideration to their desperate pleas for mercy. The German entry and liberation came, and what these soldiers got to see caused their reaction and the first punishments. Those who took part in the murders were executed. Those who tried to get away with it were captured and identified by one of the German girls who had survived the massacre.

  One could tell that this village missed its children. They lay in the cemetery, marked with their names and ages ranging from a few months to their early teens. I visited the cemetery with my father and brother in 1941. The gravestones told the unanimous date for the killings.

  In this village the swastika banner was hung on the festive occasions, always adorned with flowers and a thin, black ribbon to mark the joy of their liberation and the commemoration of the murdered children.

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  A few years ago I got convincing proof of how the distortion of history in “our” mass media is then carried out. In a so-called documentary about the German entry into Poland, there are film clips that show how a German girl outside of Lochowo identifies the Polacks she wants to see shot for the German soldiers. Nothing more!

  I called SVT, Swedish Radio and Television, to protest, but received no understanding. I wrote a letter to my brother, Folke Schimanski, an employee of SVT, and reminded him about our visit together with our father to Lochowo’s cemetery in 1941. Surely he could object to this and tell the truth. I just got the reply: “At SVT we follow the principle that in the struggle against Fascism, even lies are allowed.” And from my mother I got scolded because my behavior could “ruin Folke’s career, etc.”

  However, every time I light a candle on someone’s grave, my thoughts go to those little angels in the out-of-the-way village outside of Bromberg, whose gravestones were undoubtedly obliterated a long time ago.

  Ice Crystals

  One cold November day in 1940 my mother lugged my 4-year-old brother and I and several travel bags through Berlin. Our goal was Anhalter Bahnhof. The S-Bahn, as the local railway was called, was crowded with school-aged children and their luggage. The Minister of Internal Affairs, Dr. Josef Goebbels, had ordered that all school-aged children and some of their teachers leave Berlin. The mood at the train station was a little subdued in this situation because parents and children did not know how long they would be apart. I, on the other hand, was not going to miss what I was leaving behind in the slightest. I was looking forward to being liberated from my torturous homework drillings in the evenings, followed by getting my ears boxed and being scolded.

  When the papers about the evacuation came to my class at school and we were to take them home to our parents to be signed, I hoped from the bottom of my heart that my parents would sign them and approve of the minister’s decision. I had no feelings of any great love from my parents, so my hoping should not be anything shameful. They signed the papers and KLV became the organization I would belong to for the next two years.

  As an aside I can mention that even England had a similar organization, but after seeing a documentary on TV about it a few years ago, I thought it was awful. They used the principle of selection, which meant that the children gathered on the platform at the train station and people who wanted to house these children were allowed to pick the children they wanted to house. As a result, those children who did not look attractive to the villagers were the ones who ended up with the village school teachers or the priest for further steps. I thought this was a grim and inconsiderate way of dealing with the situation, without the least little bit of organization.

  The German children who had relatives or close friends in rural areas were of course allowed to stay with them (if they wanted to). Others stayed in Berlin with their parents.

  My departure was, in other words, not a sentimental one. Instead it was full of sheer curiosity over what was to come, plus a feeling of travel fever towards new adventures as I looked at my large suitcase that shook and hopped to the rhythm of the railway curves in Berlin, which were still not in ruins. My suitcase was full of new things, carefully packed by my mother, who was very careful to give her daughter a certain status amongst her schoolmates.

  “Anhalter Bahnhof” was heard over the loudspeakers and we eagerly pressed on towards our respective trains that were carefully assigned to us in our papers. All the gloomy mood from our departure had now completely vanished. We were met by marching music, joyful acclamations, flags, paper flowers, and streamers that decorated the trains. My class, or I should say a part of it, was put in the trust of one of our well-known teachers and two of the official functionaries from the Hitler Youth, two young women in their 20s. The orchestra played a tune that was even well-known to the Swedes: “Mussi den zum städtele hinaus” (it later became a popular song recorded by Elvis Presley, “Wooden heart”), and the train pulled away with its usual huffing and puffing, as steam engines do.

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  To Shleisen, Annaberg, one of Germany’s historically heroic places known for its freedom-fighters against the Polish suppression during centuries of conquest from the Polish side. Five of us girls in the train compartment found each other right away. There was a succession of song and laughter. The dif
ferent stops along the way provided entertainment courtesy of the local Hitler Youth organizations. Everything was well-organized down to the finest detail.

  Helga, a blond girl with lively blue eyes who was born outside of marriage, had a mother who adored her and who knew all the lyrics to the songs that in Sweden were called chapbook songs because they were printed and sold for a few shillings at that time. They were at the same time humorous, gruesome, and captivating.

  Eva seemed to be a simple and calm individual who we did not know that well, given that she was from a different class at our school.

  Erika, well-built, stylish, and dark-haired, came from a highly-educated family, and Ilse, medium-blonde, freckled and jovial, who with her Berlin dialect and dry humour, had the potential to be our favourite companion at all times. She had already treated us to many a good laugh with real humour at school.

  I remember so well when one of our teachers explained the purpose of nose hairs as dust filters to prevent dust from entering our lungs. Ilse waved eagerly with her hand and shouted happily with her genuine Berlin dialect that cannot be translated into English: “In my uncle’s nose they looked out …” Both the students and teachers laughed so much that the tears ran down our cheeks. Or when we, before our KLV trip, were examined by the doctor and had to leave the obligatory urine test. Embarrassed and shy, we handed over our samples to the stern nurse. Not Ilse. She handed over her bowl with the words: “There’s a little shit in it too”. This caused the stern nurse to lose her composure for a split second, but she was able to make a disapproving look. But the rest of us could of course not help but laugh.

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  Despite our different backgrounds we got along really well and became known amongst the others as “the hedgehogs” during our time on the KLV trip when we were in the same camp. I do not know why, but our clique did not mind the expression.

  During our journey, with regrouping and extra trains, and different stations in the long region of Schlesien, we got quite tired and the desire to stretch out and sleep came over us all more and more, but all trips come to an end, and thus even this one. We arrived at our destination and the foggy landscape greeted us shivering and perhaps pale travelers. A group of nuns and a municipal leader in uniform greeted us in a friendly way and at that small station there was a horse and carriage waiting for us. The driver took care of our luggage.

  We had a short walk to our camp, which was situated in a convent beside a refugee camp for refugees from the Baltic, and their kitchen was to provide us with food. We were about 20 girls who were now to be given room and board, and we five who had become a clique were to share two rooms up in one of the towers of the convent. The wood-burning stoves spread their warmth over newly-made and clean beds. We were surprised by the height of the mattresses on the small beds. But we were disappointed when the height soon sank down and we discovered that the mattresses were filled with straw. We took everything well and slept splendidly.

  The next day we unpacked and put our things in the closet. We thought it was exciting up in our tower which was closed off by a glass door that was directly connected to a narrow staircase. We had to do all the cleaning ourselves and were encouraged to decorate our Spartan room so that it did not look like a convent cell. The wood-burning stoves were looked after by older Baltic girls from the neighbouring camp. As is common for youngsters, we soon felt at home in our unusual environment.

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  Winter arrived with snow, cold, and glittering ice crystals on our window panes. We were fascinated by these changing patterns that were created by the warmth from the wood-burning stoves. We were strictly forbidden to touch the fire, but the ban was difficult to follow when Helga received her every-third-day package from her mother, containing amongst other things apples, which we secretly roasted over the fire in the stoves. Helga generously shared the contents of her package with the rest of us.

  Of course our time was taken up with duties like schoolwork, cleaning, etc., but there was time left over for mischief. Lots of mischief, one might think, given that our levels of inventiveness were high, most of all Helga’s. One time it almost went bad, quite badly, for us. We five in the tower were quite isolated from our other friends, and we did not keep such close tabs on what was happening in the lower areas. After each cleaning of our section it was time for the inspection by our HJ (Hitler Youth, translator’s note) functionaries. We often placed discarded sinks and bowls from the storage room in front of the door and let them roll down the stairs, making the noise that such material does when that happens. Sure, we were punished for our pranks with toilet cleaning, snow shoveling and the like while our other comrades were allowed to play games and partake in other leisure activities, but we could not resist. But that time!

  But that time the stainless steel bowls started their clattering down the stairs, the noise was not met by high-pitched women’s voices, but by manly ones that wondered what in the h--l was going on. Amongst the upset words we heard our teachers’ apologies and explanations. We sat on our chairs in front of our beds, pale and afraid. Terrified of what our prank had caused, our laughter was stuck in our throats and Erika was almost ready to crawl under her bed when the door was thrown open and outside stood our teacher with two high-ranking KLV functionaries, their faces red with anger. But obviously the sight of our terrified beings made them calm down a bit and just said: “So, this is what you look like, the ones who are responsible for the undisciplined behaviour in this camp”. Nothing more was said, and after that episode, our pranks of this sort on our HJ functionaries came to an end. But they did not completely cease. There were other things that interplayed between our dispositions and Helga’s ingenuity.

  As I mentioned earlier, our catering was provided by the Baltic people, and their diet was certainly not like ours. Sometimes it was quite simply inedible. Have you tried duck egg gruel before? Lucky you! It tastes like something between beer posset (which people from the Swedish island of Gotland are supposed to love) and fermented Baltic herring, when it comes to the smell. The thick, yellow gruel with its stale smell made one feel ill just by it coming in the vicinity of one’s nose, and swallowing it was like eating vomit. But our teacher would not be bribed when it came to food. It was to be eaten and that was that. The HJ functionaries towed the line. The teacher herself ate the gruel. I do not know if she did that with a good appetite or with good acting abilities, but when she was finished, she left the table with the words, “Now remain seated until the tureen and your plates are empty”. She locked the dining area and there we sat, 20 girls who felt ill because of that so-called human food.

  What to do with that nauseating soup? Throw it out the window? No, the snow would reveal our prank. But then Helga came up with a brilliant idea. In the nearby closet there were a bunch of hot water bottles hanging. Rubber bottles with good screw caps. She pointed out that they were large and easy to fill. Even our HJ leaders were with us about the idea of liberating us from the soup by pouring it into the bottles. We completed the maneuver while one of us listened by the door in case our teacher came back. It all went well, but our teacher probably wondered why there was so much running back and forth to the closet that particular night. It was not the sudden coldness that was the cause, but a certain emptying in the toilets and the rinsing that caused the activity.

  Vera, 12 years old, 1940.

  The youth were sent off with paper flags, streamers, and marching music.

  The Conspiracy

  In St. Annaberg’s KLV camp we bonded together to form a good comradeship. There were of course squabbles amongst 20-some teenagers between the ages of 12 and 14, but there were never any big quarrels between us. (Articles about “the silent opponents” in the Third Reich were often published. These now brag about sabotage and tactics in their daily work that were aimed at damaging the regime, all from behaving arrogantly towards foreign guests to spreading rumours and unrest to the re
st of the population. Unconsciously I rendered a couple of these parasites harmless but did not understand that until later when I followed the articles in a Swedish newspaper.)

  A couple of aunts to two of my camping mates who were cousins visited our camp just before Christmas. They were warmly welcomed by our teacher and the HJ functionaries, and we admired in parentheses these well-dressed middle-aged beings. But something happened. Our comradeship was disturbed and we “hedgehogs” were for some reason rejected by the intimate circle that had taken shape in the lower corridors. In the evenings the aunts organized so-called story times for the girls downstairs, but we five upstairs were not allowed to join them. The atmosphere felt spiteful and artificial, and became in an unexplainable way destructive.

  One evening out of curiosity (and perhaps jealousy of the chosen ones) I snuck downstairs to listen to the “story time”. I carefully cracked open the closed door of the room where the girls sat around on pillows in front of the two aunts. They were not telling stories! No, they were making a long, intense row of dirty attacks on the camp in general and the KLV more specifically. The aunts’ well-painted lips were throwing dirt on our oasis. Upset and with sudden speed I went to the HJ leader’s room and told on them. With some disbelief from her side we snuck back down to the slightly ajar door and my words were confirmed. There was a real commotion! The leaders were contacted and the elegant ladies were taken away in disbelief by uniformed men. The two cousins were expelled immediately. They had to pack up and return home. The good mood soon returned to the camp but with one difference: we hedgehogs became somewhat of favourites.

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  Christmas came and all the quarrels were soon forgotten with all the preparation.