Once everyone was packed, the SS corralled them on to the forecourt outside. An army truck stood waiting, its engine running. The exhaust fumes drifted in black clouds over the snow banked up around the entrance to the hotel. It was dawn and above the deep shadows of the lower slopes, the peaks of the mountains, lit by the rising sun, were the colour of rose gold. Fey thought how incongruous the belching lorry and the black uniforms looked in the otherwise beautiful setting. Despite the order to hurry, they stood for hours in the cold. There was not enough room in the lorry for all twenty-two of them and a second truck had to be ordered from Bad Reinerz to transport their luggage. Finally, at midday they set off down the winding road to the valley.
Outside Bad Reinerz station, a squad of soldiers ordered them off the trucks; it brought home the fact that they were no longer privileged hotel guests and were once again ordinary prisoners. More than the rough manner with which the soldiers hurried her along, it was the lack of information that weighed on Fey: ‘The SS still refused to tell us where we were going. The hope of being transferred to another hotel vanished rapidly as we were marched through the station yard. To reach the third-class carriage assigned to us, we had to cross several railway tracks, dragging our luggage behind. Two lines of soldiers, with rifles at the ready, formed a corridor for us to pass through. I thought it more comical than frightening. All this fuss for twenty-two people! The carriage was much too small and, once we were all seated, practically one on top of another, we could hardly move. The windows in the carriage were barred and tightly closed, so the whole place soon became suffocating.’
The soldiers, who were travelling in the wagon behind with the luggage, took it in turns, two at a time, to stand guard over the group. Regular Wehrmacht troops rather than SS men, Fey found them ‘fairly human’ and, as the journey progressed, they began to chat. They gave her news of the war, telling her of the appalling German casualties on the Eastern Front. Between 1 June and the end of August, almost a million men had been listed as dead, missing or wounded. In the space of six months, the Russians had advanced 500 miles and now threatened to take East Prussia: if they succeeded, from the border with West Prussia it was just 300 miles to Berlin.
As they were talking, one of the soldiers finally admitted to Fey that their destination was Danzig. ‘After what I’d just heard this was the worst place possible, since it meant we were heading straight towards the Russian Front. Danzig lay between East and West Prussia. In the event of a German collapse, the chances of which seemed to be increasing fast, we would fall into Russian hands. It would be better to be shot outright by the Nazis than to disappear forever into Siberia, where our families would lose all trace of us.’
It was dark by the time the train reached Breslau, where it came to a halt. So great was the Wehrmacht’s need to rush troops to the front that all civilian traffic was being held there for the night. After the long and uncomfortable journey, Fey assumed they would be taken to a hotel where they could wash and rest. Instead, the soldiers herded them into a cavernous, windowless hall. ‘The place was icy cold and seemed to have been specially constructed for prisoners in transit. They threw us a few pieces of wood for the tiny stove, then the door slammed shut and we heard the key turning in the lock.’ The facilities in the hall were primitive. There were no beds to sleep on, only the cold stone floor and a few wooden benches. ‘At least we could lie down,’ Fey recalled. ‘But what a change to the night before when we had slept in our rooms in a comfortable hotel! There was a toilet, open for all to see, shamefully placed against one of the walls. It had simply been put there, in the open space, without even the barest of partitions. Lotte and I tied some covers in front of it in an attempt to make it a little more private and dignified. But since the “curtain” was not high enough, one could still see who was behind it because the head remained visible, which was embarrassing for the user, but at least it made us all laugh.’
At four o’clock the next morning, in the pitch dark, they were escorted back through the freezing station to their carriage. The guards had changed, and instead of Wehrmacht soldiers, they were now in the hands of the SS.
It would take thirty-six hours to travel the 235 miles to Danzig. By squeezing up together, the group managed to free up space in the compartment, taking it in turns to sleep. Periodically, the guards came in to taunt them, hinting that the journey was to be their last: ‘You had better eat up all your provisions now. You never know what might happen’; ‘Please stay calm, remain seated, and try and get some sleep. It will be easier that way.’
Fey could not tell whether the taunts were a game the guards were playing for their own amusement: ‘They wanted us to think that we were about to be executed. But since we had been kept alive for so long, I found it hard to believe that they meant to do away with us at the next stop. Even so, it was frightening. Everyone was on edge – though we tried not to let it show.’
Midway through the journey an unpleasant incident occurred, raising the tension in the cramped compartment. At one of the frequent stops at small country stations, two SS officers boarded the carriage and roughly ordered Alex and Uncle Moppel – still in their uniforms – to hand over their epaulettes, collar tabs and other marks of rank.fn3 Both men refused. While they no longer felt any loyalty to the Wehrmacht, their regimental uniforms symbolized the values that they and the 20 July plotters had sought to uphold: honour, decency and courage. A heated argument ensued, which quickly escalated into a vicious shouting match. Squeezed between Lotte and Otto Philipp, Fey looked on, horrified: ‘Very quickly the SS officers became furious – almost to the point of hysteria. They were screaming at the tops of their voices, hurling threats and insults at Alex, who was shouting back. I was terrified they were going to shoot Alex. Some of the women in our group began to cry. It was the first time they had witnessed the brutality that lurked behind the suave, polished manners so typical of the Gestapo and the SS. I had seen it at the Gestapo’s headquarters in Innsbruck when the officer had yelled at me in front of the children, referring to my father as “that criminal whose head we cut off”. Thankfully, the argument ended with a compromise. The SS men agreed to procure civilian clothes for Alex and Onkel Moppel so they did not have to defile their uniforms. I felt terribly shaken; it brought back those last days in Innsbruck with the children.’
There was another reason why Fey was so upset, which she could not confide to anyone. The stripping of the uniforms signalled that their most likely destination was a concentration camp. Removing marks of rank from soldiers destined for the camps was standard SS practice; the authorities did not want the other inmates to know that German officers were also being imprisoned. Fey knew that men and women were segregated in the camps, and she was terrified of being separated from Alex.
As soon as the SS officers left, the families in the group rushed to console one another, realizing they were about to be split up. Fey, feeling desperately alone, watched in silence as they embraced. The thought of losing Alex was unbearable. Since leaving the Hindenburg Baude, there had been no opportunity to escape from the others. Yet throughout the long journey, when their eyes met across the packed carriage, he had held her gaze and smiled. Now she would not even have the chance to say goodbye to him alone.
As the train crept slowly on, Fey was unable to think of anything else. She wondered what she would say if by some miracle they were able to snatch a few minutes together. Knowing she was unlikely to see him again, would she have the courage to tell him how she felt? But then how could she? Her belief in the sanctity of marriage meant that an affair was unthinkable. At the same time, the force of her attraction to him was so strong, she longed for the smallest word or gesture from him to show that he felt the same.
Late on the afternoon of 2 December, the group finally arrived at Danzig. They had been travelling for fifty-five hours. The journey was not over. Another train was waiting to take them on to their destination, the location of which the SS were still withholding.
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bsp; Two hours later, they drew into a small country station, where they were told they would have to wait in the carriage until a police van arrived. Outside, the flat, featureless landscape stretched into the darkness; but they could see sand dunes, suggesting they were somewhere near the coast.
‘As we sat there, none of us said a word,’ Fey remembered. ‘Those with loved ones wanted to cherish their last moments together. Lotte was comforting her son, telling him that everything would be all right and that he had to be brave and strong; Hildegard Kuhn was weeping quietly with her head on her husband’s shoulder; and Gagi and the two young Stauffenberg boys were in a group with their parents, holding hands. Alex looked as desperate as I felt. There had been no opportunity for us to have a private conversation. This was it. We had reached our destination. All of us were worn out by sleepless nights, lack of food, and nervous tension. We had no idea where we had stopped, but it seemed cold and desolate outside. Ignorant of what was to happen next, we had to wait in the stationary train, with the windows barred, for hours on end. At last we were ordered off into the cold night and pushed into a police van. It was dark inside, but after a short ride I could see through a crack near my seat that we were passing along an enormous net of barbed wire, lit by huge searchlights.’
As the van passed through the gates of the camp, Alex slipped a piece of paper into Fey’s hand. On it, he had written out the poem ‘Love Song’ by Rainer Maria Rilke.
How shall I keep my soul from touching yours?
How shall I lift it up, above you, to other things?
O wouldst that I could find a shelter for it in some dark forsaken place, somewhere strange and quiet that does not reverberate with your deepest feelings.
But everything that touches us, you and me, does so, as with one stroke of the bow two strings make a single sound.
On which instrument are we strung? And which player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.
23.
The van came to a halt and they heard voices approaching outside. Seconds later, the camp guards slid the bolts on the rear tailgate and rolled up the tarpaulin cover, revealing a floodlit courtyard about a hundred yards square. Startled by the bright light and the blast of freezing air, the group shielded their faces. Then, from somewhere in the shadows, a voice barked, ‘Disperse! Quick march!’, and the guards disappeared at a trot.
Clambering down from the van, they found themselves in front of a long, low building. The wind smelled of the sea and the ground was sandy, like beach sand. A high wall ran along one side of the yard, which was enclosed by a double line of barbed-wire fencing; the columns of white porcelain insulators set at regular intervals indicated that the entire structure was primed to administer a lethal charge. On the other side of the wall, the camp was now shrouded in darkness; they could dimly make out the silhouettes of watchtowers, cutting menacingly into the sky.
A solitary figure paced up and down in the centre of the yard, caught in the glare of the searchlights. He was swaddled in a long black greatcoat, his collar turned up against the freezing cold. Of medium height, he had the physique and face of a fighter; square-jawed with wide cheekbones, and a flattened nose that looked as if it had been broken several times. Raising his hand for silence, he addressed the group in a high, staccato voice:
‘I am SS-Sturmbannführer Hoppe, the commandant of Stutthof Camp. You are the so-called Sippenhäftlinge.fn1 You all have relations who were involved in the attempted assassination of the Führer. Until your fate is decided, this barrack is at your disposal. You are permitted to walk around this yard until nine o’clock in the evening. If you go out later, the guards have orders to shoot. You are not allowed to speak to the guards, nor are you permitted to say your names out loud.
‘There will be an inspection at eight o’clock every morning. You must cook for yourselves and do your own laundry. You must chop the wood and look after the stoves. You do not have to wear prison uniforms, nor will you wear any form of identification. You can entertain yourselves as you like, and you can divide up the rooms as you like. I will see to it that you get books from the camp library. If you have any special requests, address them to Oberscharführer Foth. He is the sergeant in charge and will be responsible for you. You may write home once a fortnight.’
With these words, the commandant swung around and marched off, leaving the sergeant to show the group to their quarters. Emerging from the shadows of the barrack, he introduced himself politely and ushered them into the building. As they went up the steps into the blockhouse, they were so overcome with relief, everyone was laughing and hugging each other. Fey felt as if she was walking on air: ‘To my complete astonishment, we hadn’t been split up. I was so happy I didn’t care what the accommodation was like. The main thing was that I was still with Alex and I knew, from the poem, that he felt as I did.’
Stepping inside the barrack, they entered an enormous hall that took up the whole width of the building. In one corner, there was a wood-burning stove; next to it, there was a cooking area, with cupboards full of crockery, and pots and pans. On either side of the hall, there were four huge rooms, each capable of sleeping up to fifteen people, and a smaller room for storing wood and coal. There was also a large bathroom, with hot and cold running water. The whole place was scrupulously clean and smelled of fresh paint and raw timber. Some of the rooms even had a pleasant outlook over the forest that surrounded the camp.
As he showed the group around, Sergeant Foth, a short, pasty-faced man, wearing the black uniform of the Allgemeine SS, seemed eager to please, stressing both his and their importance. The barrack, he explained, had been specially built for them, and they were now ‘special prisoners’ in a ‘special’ division of the Stutthof camp. The order had come from ‘high up’ – ‘very high up’ – and the building had been assigned the codename Warhorse 1. The commandant had personally selected him to take care of their needs. They were to have no contact with anyone else. It was an honour, he said, to have been chosen.
Fey and the others were stunned by the revelation that the barrack had been specially commissioned. ‘It didn’t make sense to us. As relatives of those who had conspired to kill Hitler, we knew that high-ranking Nazis reviled us. At the back of our minds was always the thought that at any moment they would order us to be killed. So why had we been given these spacious barracks? Who had issued the order? And for what purpose? Whatever the reasoning behind it, there was nothing we could do, and we set about making our new quarters as comfortable as possible.’
The two small storage rooms at either end of the barrack were allocated to Miss Gisevius and Aunt Anni; as Fey recalled, ‘none of us wanted to suffer under their avalanche of words’. The other rooms were divided into male and female quarters, or allocated to family groups. The six Goerdelers shared two rooms; the Kuhns and Clemens and Elisabeth von Stauffenberg had rooms of their own. Fey chose to share with Lotte, Gagi, Mika and Ännerle – Lotte’s fifteen-year-old daughter.
As she went to fetch her luggage from the hall, Fey ran into Alex in the corridor. Their conversation was fleeting: ‘Alex quickly asked me if I was all right, then he offered to take my suitcases. As I bent to put them down, he whispered in my ear. The room he was sharing with his cousins was next door to the room I was sharing with the girls. The walls were paper thin and you could hear every word. If I chose the bed on the other side of the wall from his, we would be able to talk to each other last thing at night and first thing every morning. In the coming weeks, this is what we did. We always spoke in Italian. It had become our private language.’
Living cheek by jowl with the others, it was the only opportunity Fey and Alex had to communicate. There was very little to do and the time passed slowly. Despite the commandant’s promises, there was virtually nothing to eat and the group did not prepare their own meals. Instead, at noon, Sergeant Foth brought over a large vat of unappetizing soup. It consisted of a thin gruel on which floated a few pieces of potato and carrot, except on Sund
ays when it also contained bits of unidentifiable meat. Sometimes the soup had sand in it, blown in by the wind as it was brought over from the camp kitchens. At night, Foth came back with their second and last meal – a piece of black bread with some watery coffee, and occasionally some cheese.
During the day, Fey sat with the others in the large hall, which had the one stove that gave off any real heat. The groups formed at the Hindenburg Baude remained together, except the cold now confined them to the same room. Increasingly, Fey found herself on edge: ‘The Goerdelers would talk among themselves about all kinds of intellectual subjects. They were particularly keen on Rilke, and they would recite his poems endlessly. Of course, it was one of Rilke’s poems that Alex had written out for me and hearing that particular poem somehow jarred. Dr Goerdeler, who had assumed the role of head of the family, would lead the recitals. Aged about sixty, he was a rather irritable and irritating grumbler who, when not complaining about something, or reciting poetry, sat sullen and silent. While the Goerdelers held their discussions, an assortment of us would sit over by the stove, chatting. Onkel Moppel and Markwart would tell jokes, sometimes roaring with laughter for hours. Often, I felt awkward, as I didn’t understand them and I had to pretend to laugh. Then in the afternoons, Alex and I would play bridge with Markwart and Otto Philipp, which I loved.’
Cocooned in Warhorse 1, the Sippenhäftlinge had no means of knowing what was taking place a few hundred yards from their barrack. The 13-foot-high wall that separated them from the rest of the camp blocked their view of the huge complex: the scores of barracks and factories, the gallows, the gas chambers, the network of roads, and the single, narrow-gauge railway line that disappeared ominously into the forest. It also prevented them from communicating with the other inmates. So strict were the rules governing their detention that they were not allowed to see, or be seen by, anyone. The camp guards were banned from entering Warhorse 1; they were forbidden even to look at the ‘special prisoners’. It meant that whenever Fey and the others went out to exercise in the yard, the guards in the watchtowers would turn their backs. This eerie sight mystified them; they could not understand why they were being kept so secretly.
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